Viewing the local antiquities

"No driver at your door" 
is what the ads in the classifieds say. Showered, I sit barefoot on the landing at the top of the front hallway stairs: clipping my fingernails, looking down through the inner door's frosted glass window, out down the hallway well, through the outer door's glass to the street.

White headlights, diffused. Again. And again.

Red lights flare, slow, disappear. A quick blur as the outer door opens in: A figure inclines: checking the names by the doorbells.

I step down and open the inner door.

She looks up.


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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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