Expected

The last thing that Mr and Mrs Blue expected to see that twilly morning early in August was a sleeping white tiger with a bell in its teeth.

They left their glowing house as the sun rose, its curling yellow petals opening the skylights. Mr and Mrs Blue walked out their gate arm in arm, his serge sleeve entwined in hers. They were asleep, they were awake, they were moving, they were moved.

The first thing that Mr and Mrs Blue expected to see was a statue of a winged horse, straining its veined marble neck. There it was, mounted in the middle of Diamond Avenue, reassuring as a sunrise. It was there every morning, and only in the morning, for one fragile hour before it shimmered and vanished. Mr and Mrs Blue saw it first thing, every morning.

Mr Blue said, "the world is a recurring dream."

Mrs Blue said, "beautiful."

The second thing that Mr and Mrs Blue expected to see was an hysterical rush of traffic, and, to meet their expectations, an hysterical rush of traffic zoomed and burned down Diamond Avenue and around the corner, onto Belly Road. Soldiers in tight scarlet trousers, the third thing that Mr and Mrs Blue expected to see, careened around the corner in a body and fell in a heap on the bubblegummed pavement.

"I knew that would happen," beamed Mr Blue.

"It always happens," agreed Mrs Blue, twirling her ringfinger in her peacock-feather hair. Mrs Blue liked knowing that she would always draw that instinctive next breath. Mrs Blue was glad of the trust she could put in her hungers. The Earth spun. Mrs Blue liked it.

"Now the bombs rain over far-removed cities," declared Mr Blue, "and the bubblegummed pavement will ripple and bend below our luxurious feet."

"Like yesterday, and yesterday's yesterday, and every day past since the days commenced," affirmed Mrs Blue.

Mr Blue and Mrs Blue stood arm in arm, patient, knowing that presently, the fourth thing that they expected to see would arrive, and prove them right, and keep their world in its groove.

The last thing that Mr and Mrs Blue expected to see was a sleeping white tiger with a bell in its teeth.

There it was, supine, superb, relaxed like the veil of a bride gone to bed. The small round bell rang small from the tiger's mouth with every snore. Arm in arm, Mr and Mrs Blue stared at the safe and unexpected tiger. No bombs fell. Mrs Blue's hair stood up on end. It was the last thing she had expected.