Epilogue
September Twenty Five
The clock over the bar at Malone’s says it’s six, a bit too early for the usual night crowd. A few commuters were in earlier, waiting out the rush hour traffic, but they were just looking for a quick cold one to unwind with on the way home. They are all gone now. The two girls groping in the corner booth only have eyes for each other. Except for them and the bartender, I have the place to myself.
When the door opens I have to squint against the setting sun blasting through. It makes a silhouette out of the woman standing there, a framed portrait of indecision.
The way she is dressed, she belongs on the other side of town, where there is a hybrid in every driveway, and fondue in every pot. She isn’t lost, at least not in the geographical sense. She knows
