I was back in her apartment for the first time in three months. I went to the bathroom to see if my toothbrush was still there.
It was not.
I had my WD40 with me and I went around her cupboards and lubricated all her hinges. Many of them had the most god-awful squeak.
"Now I know you have not had a man in your life for many years," I said. "No man would put up with such squeaky hinges."
She was helpless before the squeaking and had just ignored the problem for years.
A few days before, I had read John Updike’s novel "The Widows of Eastwick." It has a line in there about one of the witches having squeaky hinges because of a lack of a man in her life to lubricate things.
