Katie

Oh, Katie, Katie. She of the baggy sweatshirts upon which Mickey Mouse danced, from which the airbrushed faces of her cats regarded the world with crosseyed suspicion, she of the pixie haircut and the practical sneakers with the thick soles, she of the pink doilies on her end tables, of the printed pajama bottoms which she wore tucked into her snow boots. Katie who meekly awaited her unalterable destiny. Her pinkness, her dewy eyes, her malleable limbs were all captivating but from the first Claude was aware of her haphazard construction, he had read in her lineaments the chain-smoking crone who yanked slot handles while rubbing, for luck, a picture of two grimy grandchildren, who crowded her house with collectible figurines. Katie’s shift from youth to old age would be practically instantaneous, dictated by genetics and the insalubrious lifestyle of her social class. However (Claude raised a mental and actual forefinger) she had the makings of a good mother.