They walk along the pier. The two of them. Hand outside of hand and mind with much of thought.
The gulls. The air–heavy and cold. The rotting wood–light and dying.
“The Children,” Alice says.
“Blight and crying.”
The sex. Yes. The everyday driving of motors. A herd with motive–how green the spleen.
He shrugs, “When in Rome.”
“You were never in Rome.”
He brightens, “I was, uh–”, moves his hands so round and round, milling thought of air, “what do you call it–LUST! It was lust, Alice,” he says, “lustalice.”
Her glance is firm and sharply sideways, “You haven’t lustaliced in years, you dog.”
John Alfours, “Arf, Arf, Arf!“
The airplanes. The white cloud. The blue curtain of sky (behind of which the eye).
“A girth of woman’s thigh!” he says. Pants–”heh-a-heh-a-heh-a-heh!”
Alice turns to sea and crosses her arms to grab the bottoms of her sweater, bares her breasts.
Richard at the moons, “Arooo! Ar-ar-aroooooo!”
She slaps him hard across his tongued face.
“Dog!” she says.
They walk off the pier and turn to gaily skipping down the path. Hand outside of hand. Mind with much of thought.
John turns to her, “Of all the things, what do you think is your favorite?”
“Spoons,” she says.
They skips. John thinks.
“What a metallic answer,” he says.