They are readers and writers. Readers of one-hand-held cloth-bound books absent of dust jackets. Writers on clacking portable black-keyed manual typewriters in dark rooms. One is taller than the other. They are natty and comfortably lean. At least one wears a hat. There is a garden globe on a white concrete pedestal in the backyard. It is either silver or blue. The backyard is not big, but it is big enough. I answer one through the upstairs window, my hair hanging down.
It is sunny and green as we walk slowly along a dusty path that runs by the back of our house. I wear pumps, a white linen straight skirt – its hemline below the knee, a silver-white charmeuse blouse. I seem taller. My eyes are dark. My hair is dark, thick and put up.