Never Say Never

His father, a talented little Italian
pastry chef was a warm and jovial
man, his mother mean-tempered, and
he, neurotic, withdrawn, took somewhat
naturally to a profession swollen with
bright minds and hunched-over introverted
personalities. His wife knows full well
what she may or may not do; he makes
that abundantly clear. She once confessed,
weeping, his cutting observation that
'she wasn't the girl he married'. He,
quite obviously was the fellow she
married; question is why. Answer:
fearing loneliness for as she once said
she married 'late'. This dour, cranky,
self-obsessed fellow has challenged
our charitable impulses to see in him
hidden qualities but alas, over the decades
what met the eye was all there was -
detached indifference to human contact.
Retired now, he fully indulges his
hermit lifestyle. And then, as though
to defy caricature this man who would
never offer help to anyone, much less
loan out a tool or say hello to a neighbour
actually crossing the street to avoid the
prospect of a face-to-face greeting,
bought himself a flashy silver GM
rag-top; this guy - the very prime example
of morose prudence - a convertible in
a country of short summers and brutal
winters. A defiant stab at bitter destiny?