I am in my
kitchen, about to
lock to door. It is time for everyone to go to
sleep, but I notice that it is
early morning and the sun is up. There are people outside hula hooping in the driveway, using sanders, raking leaves. I decide to check to
mail.
I am about to close the door when two very badly dressed men enter. They smell like Old Spice and they have slicked back hair that is longish and curling at the nape. They are both wearing brown pants and yellow shirts, rolled up over their arms, a multitude of gold bracelets nestled in the hair.
“Isn’t this 231 Gordon Street.” The gooniest one asks.
“No!” I tell them. I am in my jammies and pretty uncomfortable. I want these guys to leave, I call out for my husband.
“We are here for the piano”; they shove past me, looking around.
“I don’t have a piano”. They looked and looked, refusing to believe that I was telling the truth.