Traci moved out to L. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Her place was not filled; she had been simply noted as absent, and she did a comforting day of admirable dissection upon the tortoise. A series of photographs were taken of them: her on the stairs, the couple of them on the stairs, the couple of them in the kitchen, him pinning a red rose corsage with great care and acute sexual frustration. She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. He was every bit as much a pig as this Emile. He munched his popcorn steadily, periodically offering it to her, but not his Coke, as that would be too bold, a saliva exchange. That's the way it goes.
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