—Woody Allen, in the New York Times, October 16, 2011 It’s Super Bowl Sunday—a fact I’m only dimly aware of, not being a football fan—and we’re sleeping late. We’ve moved to a two-bedroom condo down the block; the second bedroom is my office, at least until there are children to fill it. The down payment for which came mostly from liquidating the stocks I’d purchased after selling the New York apartment, and partly from Dad— what he’d elusively and morbidly called “an advance on inheritance.” We had the doorways widened for better wheelchair access—perhaps the chief benefit of home ownership. When we’re both sufficiently awake to communicate on this chill February morning, I ask ML to roll me onto my back. Nothing unusual in that. It’s my wake-up position—suitable for watching TV, drinking coffee, making love, or just cuddling, etc. This particular morning, it seems it’ll be coffee and TV. Except something feels wrong.
