Talking, they theorize why the woman died, what possible reason the man had for killing her; a crime of passion, taken past sanity to necessity. Or was it just for no reason, a random act, or was he overpowered by a driving force, the sweet perfume of moonshine magnolias.
              The man, the new man, not the other man, says that he, the first one, loved. But he can know nothing of love, he who lies for the sake of lying, who lies to reshape lives. And Anne, the mother -- and, oh yes, the child is important, if only she could see that clearly that she does what she does not for herself -- protects her child by an exposure (of her). She doesn't realize, though, realize anything, just wants to realize the reality of the uncruelly calculated crime, perhaps passionate. For others, perhaps, tender is the night, or the salmon, but at night the scent grows so strong like a twice bloomed, doubly perfumed, jasmine, Anne can do nothing but drink the unscented, dry wine that can moisten her desiccated mouth, and wonder why why she died. Yes, she, Anne, too, though not only, for she does die, she is dead, she gives up her child and gives up her passion which is life.

Life, driven fury, not cold logical love, like chilled salmon or coffee ice cream, which is not love or life, but nor moderato cantabile, the thick (moderately) melodious suffocating brocade of pale magnolia, instead the sea breeze that strikes steel chords from the hedgerow and grates against the cold blossoms, unsmelling, dispelling their scent. The dying rays of the sun, rays of the dying sun, tinged with the blood of passion, of s/laughter, the sun that once it disappears the petals can relax and surrender the scent, the sense that drifts on the night breeze but must be discovered during the day, clinging to its every petal and fighting twice as hard to stay as it does to drift in the sun's red and black death.
              But she also, the first one, dies, died, dyed red with sunset's fiery blood, and they talked too, and grew tired of talking, but now their resurrected ghosts talk once more until they, too, die or wish to -- but ghosts cannot die, can they? But maybe only Anne is a ghost, and Chauvin is(t) a demon, set on driving Anne to the point of insanity with his logos and hypothetical, cold speech. For he, even bloodstained, could cry, but he, offering the damning fruit of gossip, can only lie.