They stand three and a half blocks from the Eiffel Tower and look as though they hold the monument in their hands.
They are at the beach, holding hands.
They are at the beach, not holding hands.
They are at the beach, and one is missing.
They are the beach, their backs to us. They are staring at the sea. The missing one has returned with a boogie board.
They are at Disney World. A man or woman in costume is with them. The costume is not immediately recognizable as belonging to the pantheon of Disney characters. It is a weevil.
They are at Six Flags. The same man or woman in the weevil costume is with them.
They are at the beach, buried to their necks in sand.
They are at the beach, a treasure chest in front of them. One holds a metal detector, the others shovels.
They are at Disney World, wearing Mickey or Minnie Mouse hats according to their gender.
They are at the beach, wearing the same Mickey/Minnie hats.
They are the Hard Rock Cafe, rocking hard.
They are at Planet Hollywood. The weevil is with them.
They are at Coney Island, riding a roller coaster, eating hot dogs, winning prizes, getting tattoos.
They are at Mount Rushmore. They are out of focus, but behind them, atop the head of Washington, one can see a gripping struggle: A man wearing tails, a monocle, and a cape is pushing down a man in a gray suit. They are fighting to the death! The man in the gray suit hangs by the nose. Is all hope lost? Clearly not — that man in the gray suit has steely determination. He will prevail. Atop Roosevelt: the man in the weevil costume.
They are at the beach again, badly sunburnt.
They are in a living room. Is it their living room? It must be. They’re home. The man or woman in the weevil outfit is in the kitchen, fixing the family pancakes.