We crossed the street to the park in front of city hall, our footsteps taking us quite naturally to the park’s crown jewel, a statue of Elvis in his shiny, metallic glory. Elvis was perched on a large pedestal, microphone in hand, frozen in the act of telling Tupelo, Mississippi, not to be cruel. Kids played on swings, and a young black couple sat on the grass having a late picnic.
You don’t like her, do you? Noah signed as we stood before the King like supplicants before a throne.
I made a face.
She doesn’t like me, he added.
Yes, she does, I signed.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t see me.
Give her some time.
She’s pretty.
A pretty pain in the ass, I thought.
But she doesn’t like me, he added. I can tell.
That’s not true.
It is.
We wandered from Elvis to the swings, and I
