from the kitchen. “Coffee and pie,” he said.
Her voice sounded downcast, quite empty. “Lemon coconut chocolate.”
In proportion to the height from which her voice came, the hands could not be her hands at all. “Yes,” Joe said.
The hands did not move. The voice did not move. “Lemon coconut chocolate. Which kind.” To the others they must have looked quite strange. Facing one another across the dark, stained, greasecrusted and frictionsmooth counter, they must have looked a little like they were praying: the youth countryfaced, in clean Spartan clothing, with an awkwardness which invested him with a quality unworldly and innocent; and the woman opposite him, downcast, still, waiting, who because of her smallness partook likewise of that quality of his, of something beyond flesh. Her face was highboned, gaunt. The flesh was taut across her
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