House like a church. Dour. Ribbed. Centered between these two corn-fed Iowans. Man in overalls and his Sunday best. A hard man. Look at his mouth. Woman in apron and cameo. Look at her shadowed eyes. Imagine the bedroom. The bed. Does she wash the sheets often? Maybe. Notice the one escaping tendril from her bun. Notice the barn. Barely there. What does that say? Ask yourself, whose hand is on the pitchfork?