Epilogue
Not with a whimper but a bang, this then would have essentially concluded the retelling of the “incident,” the My Side column I was never offered and never wrote.
Except came the coda I wasn’t expecting.
It was October 21. The tapping at the front door of Platte was tentative, like someone with fibromyalgia and tender knuckles wanted in. Deliveries rarely came there. Besides, they had come and gone, and I was verifying the last of it, a champagne order. I heard it again and came around from the oak bar.
“We’re closed.” I said it kindly, but loudly enough to be heard.
Our laser-etched logo was an opaque strip hiding his eyes, but I could see his face was as white as the underside of my wrist.
Curious, I tilted my head and advanced. This was another example of how humankind ar
