I’d been talking to Salesman John about a sleeper sofa for our newly painted den when a woman slipped into Hip, the name as well as descriptor of a neighborhood furniture store. She was like air whooshing through the door. “Excuse me,” a whispery interruption. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” a flatlining of fast words.
The woman, spoke to John. She didn’t see me, or chose not to. I could have been an image, a hologram, a statue, pen in one hand, papers in the other, mouth hanging.