Scampi: We have all swept the sand from our hair at the end of the long day.

 

Peter: Yes.

 

Scampi: I could shake the sand out of my hair. I could even shake your hand.

 

Peter: I reserve judgement.

 

Scampi: You certainly do. You are nothing if not judgemental, and reserved.

 

Peter: [sighs.]

 

Scampi: We could say something like: the water is this blue.

 

Peter: Yes.

 

Scampi: Let x be equal to the blueness of the water.

 

Peter: This is acceptable to me.

 

Scampi: Let y be equal to the violence we do to our neighbour.

 

Peter: Perhaps we can dispense with y.

 

Scampi: Y not?

 

Peter: Ah.

 

Scampi: Har, har.

 

Peter: My skin is fitting my face better, these days.

 

Scampi: As well it should. We all need a goddam vacation.

 

Peter: The bombast of your rhetoric never fails to put me on edge.

 

Scampi: Go fill this basket with fruit from the garden.

 

Peter: Why?

 

Scampi: We’re having a party.

 

Peter: We are?

 

Scampi: We are.

 

Peter: What’s to celebrate?

 

Scampi: Our great good luck.

 

Peter: Oh?

 

Scampi: The bruised and verdant earth. The worms oozing forth from the early apples of our smallest-handed selves.

 

Peter: I don’t want to eat worms.

 

Scampi: But you can swallow August whole and come up clean.

 

Peter: Your abstractions still make me wince.

 

Scampi: Go on out to the garden, Peter.

 

Peter: What are we meant to be celebrating again?

 

Scampi: The sublime coincidence.

 

Peter: Of what?

 

Scampi: Our great good luck.