George Tully opened his eyes. He thought, not dead yet, and remained perfectly still in order not to wake up his arms and shoulders to the morning's arthritic pains. He remembered it was his birthday. Eighty-one today. Not twenty-one with the key of the door, never been twenty-one before, but eighty-one. It was a kind of anti-climax. When he turned seventy-nine he decided he would try to survive until eighty, then die. Should he now decide on ninety? No. He wished he had died in the night. Or he said to himself that he wished he had died in the night. Later in the day he would probably be glad he was alive, but not now. This was the bad time every day when he woke in the double bed and felt old and useless...
(Source: Informit)
