"I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." Ludwig Wittgenstein

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

No Place Like Home

Richard pulled the Limousine up to a small, Spanish-style, stucco, home, that was located two blocks south of Melrose. Jackie’s neighborhood appeared mildly prosperous, but worn—inching toward downward mobility—but not quite yet. Richard noticed that the house appeared to droop under some unknown weight, as if the red clay tiles were too heavy for the walls that hoped to support them.

Buck opened driver’s side the rear door of the Limousine, and as he exited, nodded a polite “Thanks” in Richard’s direction. As Jackie began to slide across the seat toward the opened car door, she discreetly pulled a crisp white business card from her minute handbag and handed it to Richard. “If you, or your family, ever need any help, please don’t hesitate to contact me,” she cooed.

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