I had no intention of opening the front door on that Saturday morning.
It was a tentative pound, five times, done with a gloved hand. It did not have the rawness of the UPS man’s bare knuckles, plus it was way too early.
Answering it would violate my own rule of never letting anyone see the smeared eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara I had neglected to remove before dropping into bed. My friend Trina called those “yesterday’s eyes,” the lazy equivalent of a walk of shame.
It was a housecoat kind of day. That’s what my grandmother, who’d sit for hours in her Barcalounger completing her order from the new Blair catalog, would have called it. Maybe I should own a chartreuse housecoat, one with a zippered front or, better, one with Day-Glo buttons as large as saucers.
For now, I’d settled for
