| But there we were, enjoying the peculiar disconnected sort of intimacy that two people feel when one of them has woken both of them up by screaming in her sleep, staring off into the humid darkness of the Iowa night, et cetera. And what do we hear but the unmistakeable sound of the guy who lives in the backyard wriggling free from his earthen prison: it’s a hard sound to mistake for anything else, since he’s buried up to his neck in black earth out there, and you have to shift a lot of dirt to dislodge all hundred-and-eighty pounds of your Self from five feet and nine inches of soil. |