Pammy had to put down the bag of fruit before she could get the door opened. She remembered what had been bothering her, the vague presence. Her life. She hated her life. It was a minor thing, though, a small bother. She tended to forget about it. When she recalled what it was that had been on her mind, she felt satisfied at having remembered and relieved that it was nothing worse. She pushed into the apartment.

"There she is.”

"Hi, you're home.”

"What's in that big wet funny bag?”

"I may not show you.”

"Fruit.”

"I got you some cantaloupe.”

"Do I like cantaloupe, he asked," Lyle said.

"And these plums, can you believe them?”

"Who'll eat all that? You never eat any. You eat a little bit when you take it out of the bag and then that's it, Chiquita. In the fruit thing to shrivel.”

"You like plums.”

"Then you say it's for me, look what I got you, world's greatest tangerine, glom glom.”

"Well I think fruit's pretty.”

"In the fruit bin to shrivel up like fetuses.”

"Where's my beer?" she said.

He had a look on his face, supposedly an imitation of her virtuous-fruit look, that made her laugh. She moved through the apartment, taking off clothes, putting the fruit away, getting cheese and crackers. There were pieces of her everywhere. Lyle watched, humming something.

"A guy got killed today on the floor, shot.”

"What, at the Exchange?”

"Somebody shot him, out of nowhere.”

"Did you see it?”

"Ping.”

"Christ, who? Puerto Ricans again?”

He reached out when she went by. She moved into him as he rose from the chair. She felt his thumb at the small of her back, slipping inside elastic. She reached behind him to draw the curtains. He sat back down, humming something, arms raised, as she lifted the T-shirt off him.