“Mary, I forgot to tell you about dinner! It’s a thing where we put burned plants and cut-up animals into a hole in our heads, and then mash them with bones that stick out of our skulls. Then we engulf them with our bodies and drown them in acid and bacteria until they come out again all gross and smelly. Anyway, hop on the Inter-Phone and I’ll tell you all about sex, too.”
This is like some kind of spy codephrase.
The agent ruffles his newspaper. In a low voice, he says, “The key hole is in the knob.”
“Yes,” says the woman checking her lipstick, never looking over. “It cannot stick or bind.”
He glances both directions, then folds the newspaper under his arm. “The problem,” he mutters, “is the Russians.”