Suddenly and surprisingly he began to see it from her falling-away point of view; looking up at himself standing there diminishing in size, seeing his own set features, his tan cotton shirt, blue jeans, his rumpled brown hair. His cold unblinking eyes looking down on himself, falling.

The grass was not really singing. It was talking. Whispering. For a shocked moment it seemed to him that it whispered, “Edward. Edward.” And then, as he turned to go back into the house for another drink, “Myra is here. Edward, Myra is here.”

Another very strong drink put him to sleep. He dreamed of himself in lines of people, waiting. Long, confusing lines at a cafeteria or a theater, with silent people and he among them also silent, impatient, trapped in an endless waiting. And he awoke sweating, wide awake in the middle of the Belsin night. Before his open eyes Myra fell, at a great distance from him now, slowly spinning. He could hear the sound of the waterfall. He sat up. He was still wearing his blue jeans.

It was not the waterfall; what he heard was the grass, whispering to him.

He pushed open the bedroom window. The grass was clearer now. Its voice was clearly speaking his name: “Edward,” it said. “Edward. Edward.”

Into his mind leaped the words from the old poem, studied in college:

Why does your sword so drip wi’ blood Edward, Edward?

The fuzziness of liquor had left him. His head was preternaturally clear. “What do you want?” he said.

“I want to talk,” the grass said. Its voice was lazy, sleepy.

“Can’t you be heard everywhere?”

“Do you fear overhearing?” The voice was fairly clear, although soft.

“Yes.”

“I’m only speaking near the house.” That was what he thought it said. The words were a bit blurred toward the end of the sentence.

“Near the house?” He pulled the window open wider. Moved closer. Then he sat on the edge of the bed by the window and leaned out into the night. Two small moons were up and he could see the grass. It seemed to be rippling, as though a slight, thin-aired wind were stroking it. The grass grew about two feet high and was normally a pale brown. The moonlight was like Earth moonlight; it made it look silver, the color of moonwood. He sat with his hands on his upper thighs, his bare feet on the floor carpeting, listening to the grass.

“Near the house, Edward,” the grass said.

“And you’re Myra?”

“Oh, yes, I’m Myra.” There was a tone of gaiety in this, a hushed joyfulness in the whispering. “I’m Myra and I’m Belsin. I’ve become this planet, Edward.”

“Jesus Christ!” he said. “I need a drink. And a cigarette.”

“The cigarettes are in the kitchen cabinet,” the grass said. “Come out on the terrace when you get them. I want to see you.”

“See me?” he said.

“I can see with my rings,” the voice said. Myra said.