TRANSIENTS, by Darrell Schweitzer
I remember —
I remember a rowhouse in West Philadelphia where the stained wooden paneling and reproduction antique furniture and the fire in the fireplace on a dark November evening all conspired to produce the pleasant, if incongruous, atmosphere of an Olde Countrie Inne. I remember sitting by that fire so many times in a padded chair, listening to the flames crackling, and the sounds of my wife preparing dinner in the kitchen at the back of the house.
I remember my wife, too. Her name was Martina, but at times it seems I have only one image of her remaining: that of her bringing me my slippers and the newspaper as I sit in that chair by the fireplace after a long day’s work. That isn’t right. It makes her seem more like a faithful dog than a person, b
