When I walk past the front porch, towards the side entrance that is Jimmy’s apartment, the curtains in the window flutter. If Jimmy has said anything to the eccentric Mrs. Foster, this could end up being harder than even I believe it might be. I doubt she’d call the police, but who knows? I tell myself to hope for the best and keep walking as I lift my arm and wave. No one out here but us friendly ex-but-hoping-to-be-reinstated-lovers.
The door to Jimmy’s place swings open before I get there. He steps out in a ratty Hawaiian Tropic t-shirt that look about as old as he is. I can only tell that the image on the front is a surfer riding through a hollow because I know the image. Otherwise, the color is so faded it could be just about anything—maybe a dog crawling through clouds.
“Can I help
