“What are you doing, Joe?” Daisy asked.
“I’m making a coffin.”
“A coffin! For whom, pray tell?”
“Me! Why on earth are you making a coffin for me?”
“An inchworm made me do it.”
“An inchworm? Joe, I think you’ve been having too much of that ghastly port wine. It’s affecting your brain–what’s left of it.”
“Remember the other day when an inchworm was crawling on you?”
“Yes. It nearly gave me a heart attack. What about it?”
“Well, legend says that if an inchworm crawls on you, he’s measuring you for your coffin.”
“How come there’s just one coffin?”
“I only need one.”
“Wrong, my Darling. I think you need another one–for you because as I recall, just last week, you mentioned that an inchworm crawled on you last week when you out in the garden.”
Joe considered what she had said for a moment and then, muttering, “The inchworm and the coffin–it’s is all just foolishness. A myth.”
“So, what are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll finish making it.
“Whatever for? Why not destroy the wretched thing?”
“No. I’ll finish it and then take it to the funeral home. I’m sure they will take it.”
Daisy shook her head. What a foolish old goat he was. He should know by now that it will take more than an inchworm to get rid of me. She went back into the house and poured herself a glass of Chianti.