Hmph.

"Hmph," he said. "Hrrr-mph." This was his way of ending any intimate conversation. "Harrrrumph." He cleared his throat, examined his toes, and turned away. This was his phraseology, like a closing quotation mark. End of discussion.

Any intimate conversation was difficult for him to carry on. He fell into them easily enough, of course, but once he realized the nature of the conversation, realized his vulnerability in continuing in it, he became embarrassed, and, at the first opportunity, brought it to a gentle, but firm, close. Like this. Hrmph. Cleared his throat, examined his cuticles or the toes of his shoes, and turned away.

Particularly in regards to women. Not women at large, or course, but their --- their workings. Sex, or reproductive organs, or having babies, or losing babies, or . . . breasts, or any of those things that represented to him the inner workings of that intricate, delicate sex. Women were like a web to him: lovely to see, beautiful and delicate to appreciate, but not meant for his understanding. Get too close to a web, and you know what happens. You get all caught up in it, nosirreebob, nosir. He could stand back from afar and observe just fine, thank you.

So she smiled to herself. He'd cleared his throat. That was her sign to change the discussion to anything non-threatening. Domestic, as in, "So, what do you feel like, for lunch?" or casual, as in, "Do you want me to turn up the TV?"

It used to make her angry. Crazy. Used to confuse her. Then it irritated her. But after forty years, you can't afford to keep getting upset. It's a waste of energy. You'll kill yourself by then, just keep getting so mad, one day you fall right over and die. Wouldn't that be something? You're lying there, motionless, the last breath of life just sucked right out of you, and your best friends stop in. "What on earth happened?" they ask. "I cleared my throat," he replies. No one would ever understand. No one would know.

And so she smiles.

They had been discussing the mastectomy of a friend from church. Fifty-six years old, and had to go through something like that. "Your body, you know?" she said. "Yeah," he said, and realized he was in dangerous waters. "It's like your arm, or your leg, it's been yours for so long, how do you accept living without it? You know?" she said. "Sure," he said, and had no earthly idea what it was that she meant.

A breast wasn't like an arm or a leg. You don't use it to tie your shoes or get around from one place to another. It seemed to him if something had to go, it might as well be that.

She was on the same track. "It's so ironic now, after all these years, now she has trouble. I mean , they were useful before. Nursed her babies. No trouble. And now -- all of a sudden --"

That was it. "Hrmph." Placed his hands on his knees and stood up. Examined his toes and said, "Well." Turned and stepped away.

"There's some meatloaf from last night, for a sandwich, if you want," she called.