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.


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