by Billie Pritchett
Normally, I would have recognized him, but he was wearing a toupee, a glued-on mustache, and aviator sunglasses when he passed on the street. Only when I arrived at my father’s house did I realize it was he who had brushed my shoulder with his bomber’s jacket, presumably on his way to meet me at my house. I sat on his porch and resolved to wait for his return. I must have fallen asleep with the cooling of the evening air. I woke to crickets and goosebumps and the glow of a light in the window. I looked inside: a lamp, a sofa back, an old blue heeler stretched across a new rug. I knocked. Unheard, perhaps. I returned home in the cold night. Next morning, my eight o’clock alarm. In my kitchen, I spotted a partially eaten runny egg on my dish, beside it a note—Missed you (7:58). I didn’t cover boxers or bother to put on shoes. I opened the door and ran after him, a receding figure, exceedingly slow, a tortoise, and I an Achilles who wasn’t fast enough.
Billie Pritchett is an English professor in the Department of Liberal Arts and English Education at Kyungnam University in Changwon, Korea. His work has appeared in Washington Square Review, Delmarva Review, and J Journal.
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