So that, certainly, he has no complaint. Nor, for that matter, does she. Even though such a non sequitur as his unplugging and waxing suddenly athletic has no place, and certainly no equivalent, in all her paperback romance experience.

She wonders if, perhaps, she should join him.

No.

She thinks not. Monkey see, monkey do is not good form for an ingenue such as herself.

Rather, she will leave him to his laps, leave him with her image, the one he had the hots for minutes ago.

On balance, she is rather pleased with the situation, pleased still more with herself.

Because they did it.

The significant deed is now accomplished fact.

It is written into the record of reality.

It was and is and cannot be undone; it happened.

She puts her bikini back on.

And passes Eric on his way out the sliding door and onto the pool apron.

She does not like Eric, with his white, white skin and hairless head and dark glasses which he never removes, day or night, inside or out.

She does not like his black uniform, or rather, uniforms, since he could not possibly wear the same one, day in and day out.

Above all, she does not like the way he looks at her from behind his opaque lenses, looks and never, never speaks, to her at least.

He and Cranston constantly have their heads together, however, and there are two voices involved in coordinated mumbling when they do.

But she is not paranoid and is not worried that they are talking about her.

As for Cranston, she sees no need to go out of her way to be friendly to the colorless clerical type.

True, he offered to "help" her, but, with what just happened, she no longer requires him, for other than technical, operational, logistical assistance.

"Tell Eric I have to go to the garden shop again."