It was still hot when I got to the store, and a billion bugs were diving around the pole lights. The fat guy sat behind the counter, mopping his face with a rag that once was a T-shirt; you could still see the yellow deodorant stains in the armpits.
"Hot," the counterman said, in a sort of neutral way. He was ready to agree with a different opinion if I had one. It was that kind of town.
"Yeah." I put a dollar and a quarter on the counter. He slid it into the palm of his hand and poked at the cash register. He was wearing a plastic pin that said ELVIS, and under that, in smaller letters, NIGHT ASSISTANT MANAGER.
He gave me a nickel back. As I was going out the door, I thought he said something to me and half turned. He was looking out the open window at the pole lights, with a dreamy look in his little pig eyes.
"Pretty fliers," he crooned. His mouth was half open, his heavy pink lips glistening in the overhead lights. "Pretty, pretty fliers.
LuEllen.
She hung around for a month or so in New Orleans, while I was recovering. One morning at breakfast she said, "Do you love me?"
I said, "Yes."
"I don't know if I can handle that," she said.
"I don't know what to tell you," I said.
"I'm going away for a while."
"Like Charade, or whatever her name was," I said.
"Chaminade," she said absently. "But not like her. 'Cause I'll be back."
"For sure?"
"Yeah." She has dark eyes like great northern lakes. "For sure."
