She forgets. He forgets. She screams like a baby. He screams like a fish. They forget the screams. They forget the baby.
“Fish,” she says.
“I’ve been,” he says, and inside him a billion microbes are at work.
A year, another year, another year. She does not scream anymore. He thinks less of fish, notices less of her. He is surprised to see her there. Her open mouth, the tongue, the darkened teeth, the heavy breath.
“Remember?” she says, but not to him, out to the sea, the swimming buildings, words painted on their skins, but words that tell her nothing. Or, something, but she doesn’t see them.
“A review,” he says, and his newspaper has left a mark there on his thumb.
“You,” he says.
“You,” she says.
And for one moment all activity is silent and they are right right there where they belong.