Stop. Do you see the woman with the seashell? She’s pretending to hear the ocean in a shell, holding it to the man’s ear. He’s pretending too. She found the shell with a gentleman friend she tells her gentleman friend. Perfect tempo. They are listening to their own blood moving, an echo in a kind of retrospective arrangement. The corpuscles moving nicely in the man now. There’s blood in the water. Competition: a perfect chord. She’s doing well. Hiding her ears with seaweed hair, exposing to place the shell, now hiding again. Neck: brief exposure. Her proportions perfect, he speaks, she waits, speaks. All done in precise phi ratios. The ratio of the F holes to the violin’s upper and lower pins, the ratio of the woman’s waist to her hips, the ratio of perfect mathematical harmonies in a scale, the ratio of his desire to hers, yes, that’s the important one, as it moves through time. She calculates nicely the ratio of her eyes above the sheet to the face remaining hidden, the speed of her corpuscles to his. Patience and timing. Rhythm. Like waves on a beach. She knows her business now. Lean in baby, mathematically you could be much closer.