Sensible in most things, Girlie buys those packs of yeast whenever she shops. She has certain assumptions when it comes to - oh what would you call it? - husbandry, I guess, the order of things: a dog, a made bed, a centerpiece, those million, no, billion lives saved for some use I can't imagine - to trip my hands, maybe, while looking among stacked bins of flour, soda and sugar for - I forget just what - for something edible, then. Or say for one great final baking-day. Or say we keep our peaces, the kitchen of our love as fertile and earth-pungent as new graves, as a bombed field. And yet we have no bread.