From behind the rocks on the beach, a woman's voice rises and falls in octave scales. I imagine she's a siren, warming up to lure sailors.
The evening is as smooth and comforting as a chocolate bar. (But I'm not good at accepting comfort. I enjoy the moment, while wondering how long the peace will last.)
One of the moms talks to the kids in a patient sing-song voice. She talks to the adults the same way. There's no off-switch for that voice.
She talks about her life as if she's read about it in a three-paragraph magazine profile.
The baby tries to arch out of the stroller, her mouth opening for a cry that she hasn't yet worked up the breath to release.
The shriek that fills the room comes from a bird at the window. It flutters off before we can get a good look at it.
We're trying to map out motives as if they follow a straight course from A to B, when what really happens is that they go through hidden tunnels and rebound off secret mirrors and raise echoes in sunken caves before emerging into the light.