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the ironing board, ironing strip after strip of it as if it is a long garment, then smelling the clean soapy smell and envisaging the thought of him tossing it. The fire is on, the flames cracking and playing on the whitewashed walls, making funny-bunny shadows. They have opened a bottle of the tonic wine and put it in the hearth to warm, loot got from Desi the publican for a kiss in the back passage of the hall. Mad to see her garters. She has the Sunday ones on for Bugler, black lace with red rosebuds.
    Here in their little abode he will stand, in the middle of the floor probably, look around, screw up his eyes, and stroke his beard, surprised at how cushy it all is. They will have candlelight for that extra romantic touch. Her hair completely ironed, without even a crinkle, she starts to pin the organza bows and stands before the long mirror puffing out her pink cheeks as if she is blowing bubbles or balloons. She can’t stop kissing him in her mind, good kissing, wild kissing, not like the peck she gave Desi, with his stained teeth and his stained tongue, trying to make a dinner out of it.
    “Will you stop that moping and get some clothes on you,” Rita says, hurrying in and flinging down the groceries—sliced bread, butter, chicken and ham paste, and a home-made apple pie with the design of a cross on the browned pastry.
    “I think I’m in love,” Reena says, fixing the last little bow onto her temple for that cutie look.
    “Don’t talk shit.”
    “Suppose, Reet, suppose he fell in love with me and me with him and we had a baby.”
    “You listen to me, this is business . . . Do you hear . . . Business.”
    “I hear you.”
    “Hay . . . And grass. Then grazing . . . Then a weeny little bit of a field . . . Then a field.”
    “You’re the brains, Reet.”
    “And you’re the brawn . . . Wait till he sees your bubs.”
    “Wouldn’t you like a dip of his wick?”
    “If I want a dip of his wick, I’ll have it.”
    “Suppose! Suppose I fell in love with him and you did too . . . We’d be clawing each other and scratching each other’s eyes out.”
    “Get dressed,” Rita said for the second time.
    “I’m all itch. I’m roasting.”
    “Go out and douche yourself in the river.”
    “You were the one that first spotted him down at the docks . . . You said he had limbs on him that would crack a woman’s thighs. Tell me, Reet, will I wear a petticoat?” she says, affecting flounder.
    “Of course you’ll wear a petticoat . . . You’ll wear the camisole, bloomers and petticoat combined . . . Our dear dead grandmother’s.”
    “With the little buttons!”
    “With the little buttons.”
    “Reet . . . Suppose he doesn’t come after all this.” “He’ll come . . . He’ll come . . . I know when a man is hungry or thirsty.”
    “Jesus . . . I’m upside-downy . . . I’m all goosepimples.”
    “Douche yourself and be quick about it.”
     
    It was by the light of a lantern that Bugler threw out the bales of hay and watched them jump, jostling each other, like tough opponents jumping for a ball. “Ye’re as good as men.”
    “We’re better,” Rita said. The talk then got on to men and women, the difference between the sexes, and soon it was to the married men who were back on the game and a new masseuse, who insisted that her clients completely undress since she undressed herself.
    “We saw her through the window . . . Guard Cuddity was there for his bad back,” Reena said.
    “Ye’re terrible women altogether.”
    “We’re terrible women altogether,” Rita said, taking the pitchfork from him as the work was done.
    He brushed the hay off himself and kicked the dust from the toes of his shoes while he waited for his money, a half smile on his lips.
    “You’ll come in for the tea?” They both said it.
    “I won’t . . . I’m rushed off my feet.”
    They began goading him then, asking him was it so that he couldn’t trust himself with any woman, and