Lipstick on a corpse

I parked my Chinese pickup near the cart corral. A friendly white-haired employee in day-glow green vest, Larry, had perhaps 6 carts with a tether on the front one. I wheeled the one remaining cart behind Larry into the store. Only he had trouble turning the carts because a special cart, made to look like a fire truck for toddlers, blocked his way, so he had to wrestle it first. So he blocked my way and that of a frail lady with a cart who wanted to exit. I looked at her and smiled. She looked pleasant, but smiled only faintly because she looked barely strong enough to do that much. She reminded me of a corpse I saw at a funeral. She’s not far from the mortuary, I thought.
Shopping done, I looked for my pickup and I heard a voice, “Sir?” It was the woman I had identified as almost dead. “Would you start my car? See? The key won’t turn.” She had a German accent. I reached in and turned her steering wheel slightly, easily, explaining that sometimes the steering wheel binds the ignition key device, and bid her try again. It started right up. Yes, her car was gone from its parking place when I drove by moments later.