The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. She stared at his pleading face. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Michelle shrugged her off. One must get them with exactly the same intensity.
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