The woman is talking on the phone. The woman is talking on the phone in the yard. How shall I call her? Aphrodite of the shoulder-trim top. She is talking on the phone. Ah, there! There is the man; strolling through the lawn. His forearm rides at half-mast, tight sign of a beer in the fist. Yes, sure enough, he lifts it; he is swigging beer in the yard, strolling casually throughout—Unferth of the easy stroll, I shall call him.

The woman, Aphrodite of the shoulder-trim top: she is talking on the phone. With muscular arms, those which fulminate from the rectangle of black framing her shoulders, letting them spring from within. Mottled hair in a bun, she wells with amazement at her sister's car-wreck tale, come to her via the phone. Which brings joy to this couple's life as they wait for corn husks broiling in the helmeted grill. And he of the easy stroll moves across hewn grass blades, they alert; and she talks easily on the wireless phone. And she too, she of the shoulder-trim top. She holds a brown glass in her hand—and she forgets it is there, forgets to drink of it, deep as she is in the well of her sister's wreck.