on the patio.
She seemed to pace herself--energy for the kids, energy for the
customers--somehow remaining beautiful and ready for more. Ready for a
different life, maybe. Usually, Patrick couldn't take his eyes from her
long strong body, but tonight he saw her more completely, a woman who
had to work too hard.

Dylan came out of the kitchen and began to play a low and rolling
melody. Patrick felt an equality between them. Dylan played the melody
over and over with simple variations, searching for something. Hunting.

In the charged space between Dylan's music and Eve's beauty, Patrick
thought about significant digits. Joe Burke was on to something. The
rubber met the road at significant digits. Mathematics met reality.
Accuracy, significant accuracy, was limited to the precision of the
worst measurement involved. It didn't matter that you could calculate
an equation to any number of decimal places. The answer couldn't be
more accurate than the wobble, the plus or minus, in the coarsest
measurement. To not understand this was to think that mathematics was
reality. Mathematics was a tool. Physical relationships that were
measurable could be expressed in equations, but the equations were
models, not reality. You had to keep the distinction in mind or you
would think you knew things more precisely than you did.

Dylan disappeared into the kitchen, and Patrick ordered another beer.
Models. The word expanded in his mind. Models. Sue was a model. Amber
was a model. Equations were models. Mrs. Van Slyke had been a model. Of
what? Herself? Hendrik's lover? Women in general? It was really the
painting that was the model. Mrs. Van Slyke had modeled for the model.
Patrick's mind began to spin.

He continued his line of thought. Mathematics was a tool for making
models. So was painting. Science and art had that in common. They made
models--of physical reality and of a personal, or human, reality. It
was all about model making. Got it! He looked around the room. Got it!
No one seemed to notice that he had just figured out a biggie. Probably
they all knew it already. He finished his beer and went home, leaving
Eve a big tip.

The next morning he thought of Willow as he was closing the front door
behind him. Chives were blooming by the shed. He picked a handful of
purple blossoms and carried them to Ann's Deli. "Top o' the mornin',"
he said to Willow who was behind the counter.

"Oooh," she said. "Chives!" She put them in a sma