I walked up the lane way to 77 Tulip Crescent holding the light blue t-shirt and formulating a plan:
I would walk up, pretend to the ring the doorbell, then walk back and tell Vince not to wait around, because I’d take a walk and try the door again later.
Indeed, I was content having come up with such a plan in such a short time, when–
The front door opened a man stepped out.
“Oh, hello,” he said, and smiled. “May I help you?”
“I’m…”
What was I?
I was surely in the wrong place.
He was holding a bunch of old cassette tapes.
He was also svelte and black and dressed in fashionable black-rimmed glasses and a pink dress shirt.
I tried again. “I’m…”
He must have spotted the shirt.
“Ah,” he said. “Toumani Diabate. You must be–”
Powder:
As beautiful and even more radiant than before, the Sunday light somehow bursting through the clouds and shining through her hair, nearly through her, her pale skin, nearly translucent…
Stepped through the door.
“Winston!”
She smiled. They both smiled.
I smiled, too.
Vince honked, and drove off.