ow. larry walks over to the boundary defined by the fresh mowing. he sights down it. gar brandt looks over his shoulder at larry, looking. gar brandt is expressionless. he
ow.
ow. foreshortened gar brandt and mitch are playing catch in their back yard. with each toss the ball pops, alternately in father's mitt and son's. precariously balanced, larry reaches out for the aerial. he tentatively touches it. he grasps it. he twists the aerial.
ow. faintly, under the wineglass sound, and clouded by static, a high, ringing tenor sings in an unfamiliar modality. cantorial music. larry drops his hand. inertia keeps the aerial rotating slowly til it dies, the sound drifting away into the sybillant shushing of trees. larry reaches out again to turn the aerial. the same crystal hum.  cantorial singing.  and now, layering in, the theme from f troop. music. crystal hum. wind.
ow. larry's look travels: his point-of-view pans slowly off the steep angle of father and son playing catch, travels across his own backyard, and brings in the white fence that encloses the patio of the neighbor on the other side. gar good toss, mitch. on the enclosed patio a woman reclines on a lawn chaise of nylon bands woven over an aluminum frame. she is on her back, eyes closed against the sun. she is naked. mitch ow. larry reacts to the naked woman: startled at first, he moves to hide behind the peak of the roof. but as he realizes that the sun keeps the woman's eyes closed he relaxes, continu- ing to stare. she is attractive. not young, not old: larry's age. peaceful. after a still beat one of her hands gropes blindly to the side. it finds an ashtray on the table next to her and takes from it a pluming cigarette. the woman takes a puff and replaces it.