He was dismayed to find that his well-worn shoes —his well-worn dress shoes— were terribly enamored of the whitest dust (not to mention the charred-orange hair of The Dog), and they became more so with every sinking step. This was not a new antagonist for Bell. The dust inevitably worked its way across every inch of his suit and pants. Most days even his tie was white after an outing.

“Get off me!” Bell cried. He kicked up a cloud.

“I'm off you!” a new voice cried in response.

Bell's eyes lit up. On examination, however, he saw that the dust had remained inanimate (and stuck fast). He considered, for there were several items worth consideration: He had never thought of dust as feminine for one, nor as having the capacity for ventriloquism. Bell snapped his gaze to the fore, toward the mighty fig tree across the bridge. He could almost discern a large, dark figure amongst its branches.

“Who's off me?” Bell asked, politely. He coughed impolitely.

“Marilyn,” the voice replied.

“Oh, that's alright then.”

Bell eyed her at last. She was standing in the shade of the tree at the edge of its murky pond, in olive coveralls, and wearing his hairdo (a neat business crop, though hers was arguably browner than his, as he was a blond). He wondered at this strange feeling in his heart. Perhaps perplexity was its name, but then, perhaps perplexity was only a symptom of his having wondered about the strange feeling. He frowned.

“Are you real?” Bell called to her. “Or only pretending?”

“Eel?” The Dog loud-hailed. “In the fig pond!?”

Bell covered his ears.

“Quite honestly, I'm not sure what you're asking.”

“What?” Bell uncovered his ears.

“I said I'm honestly not sure what you're asking!”