3.
 Next day, Saturday, he kissed Phoebe (who was vacuuming) and went out to the car with his newspaper, to go for coffee and donuts.
He found the car door unlocked. He must be slipping, he thought; he always locked it when Phoebe parked her little car in the middle of the driveway, and he had to use public parking at the curb. Puzzled, he threw his cane into the passenger seat, slid in behind the wheel, and buckled up. Fumbling for the cane, to lean it safely against the door on that side, he saw something on the floor mat.
On the floor lay a woman's wallet. It was lavender in color, probably meant to be kept in a matching purse. With trembling hands he opened it, sorted through its contents. Twenty dollars in cash; various folded up dog-eared bills; a picture (yes, her! such a pretty face, almost still a teenager's, but with strangely wise eyes).
Her name was Laurissa Bailey.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and took a deep breath. What a beautiful, exotic, fruity name—like orchids or pomegranates growing in a jungle by a foaming blue sea.
He drove to the coffee place. His thoughts ran like the washer and dryer on Saturdays, which Phoebe declared to be wash days.
As he sat at a small table with his java and his newspaper, he noticed the phone nearby on the wall, just where he had expected it would be. He dropped coins and dialed her number.
"Oh you won't believe how worried I was," Laurissa Bailey said. "Thank you, thank you..."
"I'll bring it right over," he promised dutifully, getting her address.
Two hours later, Bill knocked at a door in a large apartment complex.
Inside, chimes.
Then she opened up. She wore a heavy white terry bathrobe, and her hair was in a towel turban. "Hello, Bill. So sorry for all the trouble. Come on in. Thank you, thank you." She took the wallet, made him comfortable on the living room couch, and turned on the T.V. "Coffee?"
"Thanks, Miss Bailey."
"Laurissa." Her motions were practiced—spare, sure. Spoon here, plug there. Words in-between: "What do you do?"
"Sales."
She beamed. "Say, I could learn from you. What do you sell?"
"Office equipment."
"How exciting. I mostly work as a secretary. But I've been out of work for two months now. Gets rough to pay the rent."
As Bill listened, he floated mentally in the unfamiliar world of this young female. A ski poster on a wall, framed in chrome: Skier bursting through mountain pass, contrast of black rock and white snow, blue-white-red space suit. Pussy willows in a vase. Mod tech furniture, stark blacks whites, some red lines for relief. Then the smells: coffee, soap, perfume, something citrus, something lavender. And the light: crazy lozenges of sunlight through ficus leaves outside, folding over on pastel walls inside. Crash, the coffee pot.
"Bill?"
"Yes?"
"I thought you fell asleep."
"Oh no." The words came out in an unintentionally harsh laugh, as if clearing his throat, like a gargle. "I was just admiring your posters and things."
She came out carrying two mugs. "Here. Cream and sugar if you want."
"No, that's fine just as is."
Absently, sitting on edge of chair, she unwrapped the towel and pressed end-tangles of amber hair flat in it, like seaweed drying. "I thought of going into sales. Would I be any good?"
Bill remembered all eyes turning to follow her. "I believe you would."
"You believe." She rose. "That's nice. Would you mind if I duck out for a quick swim? Why don't you bring your coffee? Here, I'll carry it for you."
Feeling dragooned and loving it, Bill hobbled after her as they went outside through a hall way piled with laundry, boxes of detergent, plastic baskets with more laundry.
Bill sat in a lounge chair in the slatted shade of a wooden lanai overgrown with trumpet vines. The vines were filled with big blossoms white and red.
Nearby was a sun-drenched, rectangular pool about fifteen by twenty feet with rounded corners. The aqua-blue paint inside looked new. The concrete had chlorine stains. The bracing smell made him picture her in an athletic setting. She dove in like a dart, raising little water. She swam in quick strokes to the other end, kicked off in an explosion of white foam and droplets, and raced back in straight, aggressive strokes. As Bill watched, he bet he could still do well in the water. He'd been on the high school swim team long ago. It was like riding a bicycle—you never forgot it. Like chasing young women also, though it had been a long time for that&133;
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Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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