The two ladies were named Elizabeth and Beth, respectively. Both were short, both were round. They were not originally from Boca Raton, they had moved down from someplace up north. The ladies were not residents, but were now residing in one of the new apartments downtown. They did not live together, and from their tiny balconies, they could see where the city turned into a blue, wet motion. It was enough of an experience to entice them down from the 44th floor, or the Junior Penthouse if one cared to indulge their sense of entitlement. Elizabeth and Beth, respectively, were adamant, emphatic and persistent. The last adjective was Woody’s contribution to the current description. Being eager, was certainly forgivable, even if the ladies had not amended the sharpness from their first impressions. But if one was keeping score, the cadence of their conversational voices was tolerable, containing clear enunciation and actual sentence structure. It was apparent to Woody, and to anything else that was listening, that these ladies were educated and came from prestigious genes, which was why their calves were purple and swollen. The sand was hot and the breeze was out of refrigerant. Woody assured them that a repair man was on his way. That was his second contribution. Actually, it was the ladies who were keeping score. Woody did not share the following thought– would they be insulted if he asked to think of them as one? Of course, the condo building could use another elevator and the tea room only seated five, but this blue was so much bigger from the ground floor. Elizabeth and Beth, respectively, had been told by the developer that he was always on the look out for more land. They both wondered if their building had plans to expand closer to the blue. Compared to the gentle, rolling waves, that was Woody’s third contribution, in his mind, colors should only be used a certain way. Ocean, sea, water-the ladies apologized for the use of blue and their malapropism. At last, they were speaking in a lower tone. Elizabeth and Beth, respectively, were wilting in the heat. Even though one rubbed the back of her legs and one did not, both sets of calves were still purple. Woody decided, unilaterally, from now on Elizabeth and Beth would exist as a singular entity known as Biddy and they would remain round. Woody always liked the word plump, but felt he should save that title for someone who was obligated to pay the city taxes. He wondered if the man had made it to an actual beach. That was a ponderance, a consequence which he knew existed far above the level of the genes that guided him. Woody promised to politely decline any future invitations that found him in Biddy’s home. For on a balcony above the height of the ground, Woody would have nothing he could contribute–other than his distrust of downtown and his disdain for those who did not live near the blue or technically resided in the city.