Macon went on into the kitchen. Muriel stood with her back to him , talking on the phone with her mother. He could tell it was her mother because of Muriel's high, sad, complaining voice. 'Aren't you going to ask how Alexander is? I ask after your healt, Ma, why don't you ask about ours?'
He presented himself in front of her, holding out the pizza. She looked up at him, and gave that quick, bright smile of hers a cheerful V in her point little face.
Macon was an orderly man. He was happiest with routine, and regular arrangements repeated over and over. Buying groceries on the same day each week, paying bills on another. There was on room in his life for someone as changeable as Muriel. Or as extreme. Or as ...well, unlikeable, sometimes.
She was so much younger than he was. She made him anxious about his age, his stiffness after sitting a long time, and the way he was always expecting his bad back to give him trouble again. And she talked so much about the appearance of things, her hair, her skin, the color of clothes.
Yet he knew that what mattered was the pattern of her life; that although he did not love her he loved the surprise of her and also the surprise of himself when he was with her. In the foreign country that was Singleton Street he was a completely different person. This person had never been suspected of narrowness, never been accused of being cold and without feeling; in fact, was laughed at for his soft heart. And was anything but orderly.