Henry struts around the house, a navy blue housecoat wrapped around his pompous pigeon body, matching velvet smoking slippers snug on his feet. There's much to do this morning. A feather duster dances atop shiny ceramic cats, gilded frames of scenic oil paintings, and the scratched black and white of well-loved piano keys. Next, a vacuum cleaner wears a few new grooves over a fake Persian rug. He straightens and wipes, shifts and tidies, until the grandfather clock says it's a half-a-pie to noon.

When she arrives, lunch is finished and he's in the den patting his stomach as a pop of gas orbits across his equator and bangs into the corner of his intestine.

"Must be something I ate," he winces before greeting her with a grin.

"Grilled cheese for lunch again?" she puts her purse down on a brown leather smoking chair.

"Mmm, yes, brie and a particularly gooey mozzarella."

"Henry, what's the one thing you shouldn't be having?" Her words are a long slow sigh.

"Well, that's a bit of a riddle, isn't it, Louise, dear?"

She stares at him; her mouth thins. It's not a riddle. He's lactose intolerant. And she's not Louise.

Henry cocks his balding head to one side and does a slow turn towards the bookshelves. He's done something wrong. A small corner of recognition unfolds in his mind. This woman is not his wife.

Henry drags a fingernail along the book spines in uneven clicks. He likes his sacred classics, "The Great Gatsby", "Huckleberry Finn", "Tender is the Night." Today, however, his tastes favor the whimsical. He bends down and pulls out a worn old copy of "Albert and the Unsinkable Limes." He's read this one too, many times, for someone else's bedtime years ago.

"Come on, let's go read on the deck, you like that, right?" He's certain they're related, but can't quite place her. He sees it now. How she's so unlike his wife with that unbleached hair in an unattractive shade of bread bag brown.

Julie follows her step-father's wide navy blue frame as he ambles down the hall. She keeps her tongue knotted, swallows a bulge of words that would do no good to say. These days, it's easier to be complicit with the confusion in his mind, the slow piecemeal murder of his memories.

He doesn't remember that her mother, his dear Louise, passed away two years ago. It was the disease's best trick, vanishing things, making small rips in his logic, turning his thoughts sideways, spinning them like an old glass bottle.

Up ahead, Henry pauses in front of the grandfather clock, and stares as the long steady hands dole out infinity in small passing increments.