She lay across the bed on a soft pillow settling in with Stephen King, one of her favorite authors of suspense and the macabre. No spring chicken but she wasn’t dead yet, she looked over at the light on her desk. Would it reach?
“If the print’s big enough and it’s bright enough I shouldn’t have a problem.”
She began the first paragraph getting through all right, only twice she had to angle the book so she could see better.
“More light. I need more light.”
She dropped her head catching an eyeful of her own cleavage nicely shaped in her v’d cashmere sweater the pillow was molding.
“Those were the days. That’ll change as soon as I stand.” She looked around the room. “Nothing but crappy lighting here. No standing lamps, nothing easy to move. How am I going to get better lighting and be able to stay right where I am and be comfortable?”
She lay there listening to the tocking of the small clock on the top shelf.
“I’ll try again.”