The Misses Moses

The Moses sisters lived together, alone, in the fine old brick house near downtown where they had grown up. Who knows why neither had ever married. The older, larger one, sure, you could imagine reasons. The younger, frail one, maybe she’d been too timid. It wasn’t hard to think she’d been pretty. She had bones as delicate as a mouse’s. A mouse is beautiful, if you really look at it.

She, the smaller Miss Moses, pushed open the screen door from their front porch with a hand that was itself mousishly thin and delicate.

“Please do come in,” she said.

The larger Miss Moses stood behind her, big arms folded, as if blocking further entrance. She smiled too, but there was some kind of obvious skepticism, as if she were thinking, I could take you, buster. Don’t try anything with me.

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