by Dan Shapiro

(image c/o wjladotcom)

The phone rang, waking Melvin from a deep sleep.   

“Did I wake you? Do you know who this is?” 

He’d hoped it was Madeline, but the woman’s voice was brisk and abrupt, definitely not Madeline’s.

“Yes,” he said, in response to the first question while still mulling over the second. Half asleep, he sat up in bed, propped a pillow behind him, rubbed his eyes. It was after eleven. The entire morning would’ve slipped away had she not called.

There was a crackling on the line. “So, who am I?” she asked.  

“Sorry?”

He sat up higher in bed and squared his shoulders. A city bus rumbled in the distance.

He sensed a heightened tension in her voice. What did she expect? Being grilled, especially first thing in the morning, was not his thing.  He was not a morning person. 

That damn vinyl siding company again! He’d already told them to stop calling. “Vinyl siding is great if you’re a homeowner, but I live in a six-story apartment building. So, take me off your list and stop calling!” he said and disconnected. 

A minute later the phone rang again. Before he could even say hello, she was reading him the riot act. “You do that again, I’m going to take your fucking wallet and throw it in the river!” 

He was surprised she would call. He’d pretty much given up on recovering his wallet. 

“How’d you get my number?”

“Your name and address are right on your driver’s license, Einstein. Just called directory assistance. Six lousy bucks! And your credit cards are expired.” 

“Are you going to return it or what?” 

“You bet I am. For insufficient funds. I also have a proposition for you.” 

“What kind of proposition?” His labored breathing caused by a deviated septum gave her the wrong impression.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” 

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Margo.”

He remembered her now. Wild brown eyes. A beauty mark under her right eye. White capris and red Nikes. The type of woman that normally wouldn’t give him the time of day.    

“I’m headed in your direction. Meet me at the fast-food place across from Carlson’s Convenience. I’ll be there in ten minutes. And don’t keep me waiting.”

“But I just got up. I haven’t even …” 

Too late. She’d already disconnected. 

the real Dan shapiro

 He’d gone into a convenience store to buy a newspaper and a candy bar. He’d slowed down going in, she accelerated coming out. An accident waiting to happen. He was staring down at his feet, not paying attention. He had a lot on his mind. Two weeks since he’d heard from Madeline, a month since he’d last seen her. She hadn’t returned any of his calls or texts. Had she ghosted him? He didn’t want to think about it.

She’d been rummaging through her handbag as she walked, one eye fixed on him. It seemed she made no effort to avoid him. They collided. Her bag went flying, her forehead bounced off his chin.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Walk much?” She did aggrieved real good, almost too good to be believed. She bent down to retrieve her bag. Some of its contents had spilled on the floor. Chapstick. Keys. Compact. Sunglasses. Pack of wintergreen lifesavers.

“Here, let me,” he offered.

She waved him off. 

She snatched up the items and turned sideways to squeeze by him. He felt her breasts brush up against him, not an unpleasant sensation. That must’ve been when it happened. 

He grabbed a newspaper and a candy bar and put it on the counter, then reached for his wallet in his back pocket. “Shit!” he cried. By the time he got outside, she was already halfway down the block, practically running. “Hey!” he yelled, raising an arm in the air as if hailing a taxi. He was wearing sandals, no socks. She and her red Nikes. No way could he catch her. The backs of his sandals slapped up against his heels. “Christ,” he muttered to himself. He stopped, out of breath, bent over as if he’d run a marathon. 

A police cruiser passed by headed in the opposite direction, lights flashing, banging a hard right and disappearing from view. Then, unexpectedly, there in the distance, she stopped and turned back toward him, her arms folded across her chest, one red Nike tapping impatiently on the sidewalk, as if taunting him. In the back of his mind—the very, very back—he imagined the scene as some sort of seduction. “Why not give it a shot?” he thought. A burst of speed. He didn’t think he had it in him. He was correct.

She took off like a shot. In less than a minute the distance between them had widened to a city block. Huffing and puffing, he gave up. His spirit willing, not so the flesh. Soaked in perspiration, he limped back to the convenience store. He felt a blister forming on the heel of his left foot.

“Where’s my candy bar and newspaper?” He mopped his face and the nape of his neck with a hankie. 

The proprietor looked surprised. “The way you went running out of here, I figured you didn’t want them, so I put them back.”

“She took my wallet. You saw that, right?” 

“I saw the two of you collide. Funny thing. I know she saw you, so I was surprised when she plowed right into you. And the way she tossed her pocketbook in the air, you’d think she’d been hit by a truck. When I saw you were both okay, I went in the back. The cash register needed a new ribbon.” 

“But she bought something here, right?” 

“A package of cherry lozenges.” 

“If she shows up again, you’ll call the cops?”

“Why would I do that? I got no beef with her. She paid for the lozenges.”

“But you could identify her in a lineup.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. How much was in the wallet?”

“Twenty, maybe thirty dollars. And a few credit cards. Did she put the lozenges on a credit card?”

“No, she paid cash.” 

“Too bad. She’s not a regular?”

“Sorry.”

He wasn’t sure why, but for some reason he was convinced she would return to the scene of the crime—probably just wishful thinking on his part.  No matter; he vowed to be there when she did. In any case, she got what she deserved: six bucks and two expired credit cards. She’d have done better snatching an old lady’s purse or a couple of phone chargers and moisturizing creams off the shelf. 

So for the next week, at the same time every day, he sat at the counter by the window of the fast-food restaurant across the street from the convenience store. It provided a great vantage point. 

The entire time not a single glimpse of the woman who stole his wallet, but plenty of women who reminded him of Madeline, something he hadn’t anticipated. Not so much facial resemblance, but the way they dressed. Cream-colored summer sun hats, with wide brims for extra protection. Long, flowy white short-sleeve sundresses that billowed in the breeze and swayed as they walked. Standard  tote bags hanging off their shoulders.  

His surveillance was interrupted. “This is a restaurant, pal, not a rest stop,” the guy behind the counter said from across the room. “You can’t just sit here and stare out the window. You need to order something.” 

He sighed. His nose whistled softly in indignation. He bought a small iced coffee. Soon enough it became routine. “The usual,” he’d say as he hopped up on the stool. He liked the expression. Made him feel like one of the regulars.

On those rare days when all the stools were occupied, he would walk down the street to the corner and wait under the red canopy of the Imperial Arms apartment building, which also fronted the convenience store. It was brutal standing out in the sun, especially in the middle of the afternoon. On the second day, the doorman said, “You were here yesterday. You can’t stand here unless you’re a resident. That’s loitering. This is private property.”

He should’ve parked his car—a green AMC Gremlin—on the street and waited therein, like a cop on a stakeout. That would’ve been the smart thing to do. But his car’s AC was broken, the weather sultry, breezes difficult to come by. And Margo had his license, so there was that, too. And just his luck, he’d get ticketed. 

No time to shower or shave. He’d taken her “don’t be late” warning to heart. He threw on a polo shirt, same shorts he’d worn yesterday, brushed his teeth and hair, took a second to glimpse his newly grown goatee in the bathroom mirror, and then went flying out the door. The fast-food place just two blocks away. 

Another hot and steamy day. The AC inside the restaurant felt great. He flapped his arms in delight like a penguin. He looked around but didn’t see her. She’d probably found the spare apartment key hidden in the side compartment of his wallet—this just came to him—and was there right now ransacking the place.

Then he heard his name. “Melvin!” A woman seated at a small table in the back corner waved to him. He didn’t recognize her at first; she looked different, sipping her drink through a straw, cheeks puckered. 

“Hello, Melvin. Take a load off.” 

He sat down across from her and fanned himself ineffectually with a hand. “Hot out there, isn’t it?” 

Her hair was braided, a red bandana tied pirate-style on her head. Her eyes were not so wild now, although it could just be the lighting. She had one leg straightened out under the table. He immediately recognized the Nikes.

She reached into her shoulder bag on the seat next to her, then slammed the wallet down on the table. “Six lousy bucks. It’s all there. Go ahead, count it.” Then she laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

She rolled her eyes. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term petty larceny, doesn’t it?”

“You say six, but I happen to know for a fact it was more like twenty or thirty dollars.” He thought it important to keep his story straight.

“I don’t think so. If that was the case, I wouldn’t have bothered to call. I’m not an idiot.”

He opened the side compartment and was relieved to find his key. A small two-by-three photo slipped out and landed face-up on the table. He’d forgotten all about it. Taken downtown at a video arcade in an old-fashioned photo booth. A black, rumpled curtain for privacy. A chemical smell like a photographer’s darkroom. The metal stool just big enough for two. Barely time to pose once the bills were inserted. A motorized-sounding click, a bright flash of light as each photo was taken. In this photo, his favorite, he was seated on the stool, she standing behind him, bent slightly, arms wrapped around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder, faces nestled together. He looked startled but happy, definitely happy. His smile said it all. She smiled too, yet now he wondered if it was real. 

He tried to grab the photo, but Margo beat him to it.

“Didn’t see this,” she said. “Who’s that?”  

“Madeline.” 

“Girlfriend?”

He nodded.

“You look like a deer in the headlights. She’s more difficult to read. I can’t tell who Madeline likes better, you or the camera.” 

She slid the photo back to him. “Punching above your weight, hey Melvin? I’m impressed. Bet you didn’t bump into her at Carlson’s. ’Cause I have to say, you don’t seem her type. Six dollars in your wallet and a bunch of expired credit cards. So, what is she, like some kind of Sister of Mercy?” 

“No.”

“She like your goatee?”

“She hasn’t seen it yet.”

“Probably for the best.” She took a sip of soda. “Look at you, all hot and sweaty. Go get yourself something to drink.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“What do you mean? You have six dollars. Where do you work, Melvin?”

“I don’t. I was a telemarketer. They had a layoff.”

“That’s too bad because you have the perfect telemarketer’s face.”

“Thanks,” he said, mistaking it for a compliment.  

“Hey, no need to get down on yourself. I’ve been shit-canned before. I know how it feels. I worked in a French restaurant uptown. Probably never heard of it. Le Hareng Rouge. One night during my break the hostess caught me in the coatroom frisking the garments. I didn’t actually take anything, even though I could have, but she told the manager and I was fired on the spot. I learned my lesson. Now I’m working for myself—you know, self-employed—full-time.”

He stared at her drink. “Are you going to finish that?”

She slid the drink across the table. “Go for it. Lucky I bought an extra-large.” 

Using the straw, he drained every last drop of lemonade. The sounds he made were cataclysmic. Like the earth was being sucked up into a vacuum tube. 

“You’re a piece of work, Melvin.” She laughed and leaned back in her chair. “Tell you the truth, lately I’ve also been off my game. Maybe because I set my sights too high, but that’s just the way I am. Uptown is definitely my territory, but first I need to get my mojo back. That’s why I’ve been slumming. I remember last year at this time. My Golden Age. The Summer of Margo. I could’ve lifted Pat Sajak’s toupee right off his head, and not even Vanna would’ve noticed. One afternoon I was standing outside Tiffany’s next to the revolving doors when I had this brainstorm. The next guy that enters, if his wallet or billfold is visible, I’ll step in right behind him. Even though it was a year ago, I remember it as if it was yesterday. Then it happened. This guy steps into the revolving door. I’m right behind him. I had to work fast. Five seconds later, he steps off into the store and I continue around full circle. I exit and disappear into the crowd. His wallet had that nice new leathery smell, like upholstery in a new car. Let me tell you something, a life of crime, Melvin, it’s not for everyone. And maybe it doesn’t pay, but so what? When done right, it can be a beautiful thing.” 

new pop lit

In the kitchen he nervously drummed his knuckles on the table while eating an apple, phone face-up and within easy reach, his sent text visible against a green balloon background. Hey Madeline. Help me out here. What’s wrong? Talk to me. Please! 

He got up from the creaky kitchen chair and made the short walk to the fridge, peering over his shoulder at the phone. He grabbed a beer and a bag of chips from the cabinet and sat down again, just in time to see that nothing had changed. Maybe she didn’t receive it. He considered re-texting, then reconsidered. The wait was excruciating. He felt a tightness in his chest. He could still taste his lunch: a turkey sandwich with yellow mustard. A stupid choice, a prime candidate for heartburn. 

The turkey sandwich (or maybe the heartburn) brought back memories of that Fourth of July weekend on the Jersey Shore last summer, their first trip away together.  The weather was perfect: blue skies, soft breezes, plentiful sunshine. It was their second day there, Sunday. Madeline was stretched out on her chaise lounge, reading a well-thumbed issue of Elle, wearing a red two-piece bathing suit, hair up in a bun, sipping a San Pellegrino mineral water, basically chilling. Melvin wasted no time. He shed his shirt and eagerly bounded down the sand and dove headlong into the first available wave. He turned round to wave to Madeline but she was not looking, seemingly engrossed in her magazine. When he turned again to face the sea, the crest of a wave caught him right under the chin, landing with the ferocity of a Mike Tyson uppercut, sending him sprawling backwards into the surf. It took a minute for him to recover. He hoped Madeline hadn’t seen it.

He walked back up the beach. “I’m starving!” he declared, managing to shake off the stars.   He walked behind Madeline’s chair to remove the Tupperware container with his turkey sandwich and pickle from the cooler. He sat down on the sand beside her, towel wrapped around his shoulders, water dripping off his elbows. He opened it, releasing the spicy, pungent smell of yellow mustard she had slathered like sunscreen on his sandwich. “Forgot my soda.” He placed the open container on the edge of her chair, then hopped up and walked behind her to remove a soda from the cooler. In the time it took for him to bend down to retrieve the soda buried in a sea of ice, a seagull swooped down and snatched his sandwich. The tip of its wing brushed up against Madeline’s thigh. She screamed. Melvin raised his head just in time to see its beak snap shut and a dribble of mustard squirt out onto Madeline’s bare belly, before it squawked and flew off. She screamed again.

He tried comforting her; she pushed him away. She was trembling, her face white as a ghost. She spent the remainder of the afternoon listening to music on her phone, earbuds securely in place. The next day, after removing his lunch from the cooler, he tried to settle down beside her. She was having none of it. Shaking her head coolly from side to side, she pointed with a stiff arm and extended finger toward an empty picnic table down the beach and up by the road. No need for an explanation; he got the message. It reminded him of a lyric from the Eagles’ song “Already Gone.” And then you’ll have to eat your lunch all by yourself. 

new pop lit

But he was proud of his goatee and wanted her to see it, come hell or high water. He drove to Madeline’s apartment. It was early, half past eight in the morning. The downstairs front door was locked. He pressed the intercom button, waited, then pressed it again. Surprised when Madeline answered. “Hey Archie, I’ll buzz you in.” 

Not an auspicious start. Whatever. “It’s Mel—” he started to say before the buzzer cut him off. 

The elevator was out of order. He had to take the stairs. Winded, he knocked on her door. 

“Oh, hello Melvin, you didn’t happen to see Archie on your way up?” Brushing the hair from her face, she turned her head and coughed, sniffling once for good measure. “You better not come in. I think I’m catching a cold.”

She looked different. Her face was flushed, hair tousled. Barefoot, still in pajamas he’d never seen before.

The apartment smelled like bath soap and something less fragrant. He decided it was best not to dwell on it. 

“What’s going on, Madeline?”

“There’s a leak under the kitchen sink. I put a pail underneath, but now I’m afraid to leave the apartment.” She coughed again. He thought it sounded half-hearted. “I’d invite you in, but I might be, you know, contagious.” 

“I can take a look if you want.”

She stepped forward to fill the doorway. “That’s sweet, Melvin, but not necessary. I just spoke to Archie five minutes ago. He’s on his way up.” 

“Did you get my text from Thursday?”

She made a face. “Text?”

“Not a problem. I’ll resend it.” He took the phone out of his back pocket. She put her hand on his wrist. It was warm. “Not necessary. Just read it to me, okay?”

Not what he had in mind. He felt self-conscious. His voice couldn’t possibly do justice to his feelings. He supposed that’s why people use emojis. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Hey. Enough is enough. Help me—’ ”  

The intercom buzzed. “That must be Archie,” she said to Melvin. “Come on up, Archie!” Then to Melvin: “You’ve got to meet him—you’ll love him.”

A minute or two later, he heard Archie shuffling up the stairs. Seemed to be taking his own sweet time. He watched the stairway with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Archie finally came into view. He was wearing gray overalls and a red-plaid shirt, a work belt hanging low off his waist, and work boots, a rusty toolbox in his hand. He was short and slightly stooped, bushy gray eyebrows, small green eyes. His toolbox creaked as he walked. He stopped at the top of the stairs to catch his breath and mopped the sweat from his face with a sleeve. Seventy-five if a day, Melvin guessed. 

“Hi Archie.” Madeline smiled. “Melvin, this is Archie, my super.” 

“You didn’t tell me you had company. Nice to meet you, Mel.  Enough with the small talk. Let’s get the show on the road.”

She turned sideways to let Archie pass. Strange, not a word to him about her cold, nor even a cough. She looked at Melvin blankly. “Oh right, the text!” It took two seconds to read. “Well, we’re talking now, aren’t we?”

He didn’t want to argue, so he changed the subject. “So, what do you think of my goatee?”

“God, Melvin, it’s summer. Get with the program. Listen, I’m kind of busy right now. Call you later, okay?” She stepped away from the door. As it swung shut a voice—not Archie’s—from inside shouted, “Madeline, I can’t find my boxer shorts. Where did you hide them?” 

No wonder she hadn’t replied to his texts. Too busy hiding Casanova’s underwear. Melvin walked slowly down the stairs. On the second floor landing, he almost turned around and headed back up, but changed his mind. That would just make things worse. Anything he said now he’d probably regret later. This commonsense observation seemed to temporarily buoy his spirits, and he picked up the pace and trotted down the rest of the stairs, wondering what Casanova looked like. 

Crossing the street, he spied a gleaming black Mercedes parked on the corner. The license plate read OUQTU. When he reached his car, he removed the phone from his pocket and tossed it on the passenger seat beside him, face down. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, as if it were Casanova’s neck. He started the car, ready to drive off, then paused, reconsidered, and eased the gear shift back into Park. His curiosity was killing him. 

The sky was overcast. Muggy but not terribly hot. He rolled down his window and waited.  He wanted closure. How long did Madeline intend to string him along? 

“Casanova must die!” he declared, then turned on the car radio and waited. He didn’t have long to wait. Trotting down the front steps, carrying a leather satchel and talking on the phone. Grinning like an idiot and laughing aloud. Donning a pair of Ray-Bans even though it was overcast. “Must be him,” Melvin thought. He walked diagonally in the direction of Melvin’s car, not bothering even to look if a car was coming. Unfortunately, none was. Still on his phone, close enough to hear. “Yeah, I know, babe, but you have to admit I have good reason to be upset. You never mentioned Merlin. I thought we had an understanding. No secrets.” 

He looked up and saw Melvin. They exchanged glances. 

Melvin wondered if Casanova recognized him, but how could that be? Unlikely the framed photo of him that Madeline had kept on her nightstand was still there. 

“Listen, I’m late for work. Talk to you later. Love you.” Casanova walked to his Mercedes and hopped in. Pulled even with Melvin’s car to take a second look and then zoomed off.

Melvin had been called lots of things, but never Merlin. He wished he had Merlin’s magical powers. He’d turn Casanova into a dumpster. 

He remembered the last time he and Madeline were together. Mattress shopping. Single-handedly, he’d removed her old mattress, lugged it down three flights of stairs to a storage room on the first floor, then brought up the new one from the car. He even helped her make up the bed. “We should try it out tonight,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. Unfortunately, she had other plans.

Still upset by his chance encounter with Casanova, when he got home, he left a message for Margo.

Three days later she returned his call. “Still sleeping?” 

“No,” he lied, groggily. “I was up.” He rolled over on his back and rubbed his eyes. 

“You rang?”

He told her about Casanova and the boxer shorts, and how he’d overheard him on the street talking to Madeline on his phone.

Margo laughed. “Casanova. I like that name. What’s his real name?”

“Not a clue. But I’ve been doing some investigating. This might be just the thing to help you get your mojo back. But first, tell me about your proposition.” 

“Proposition? What . . . oh, that. Seems like ages ago. I changed my mind. I just don’t see us working together. I know your type, Melvin. Seen it plenty of times before. Walking through life with a big ‘Kick Me’ sign taped to your back. Just asking to be taken advantage of. Normally, I’d be only too happy to oblige, but I like you, Melvin, so let’s just leave it at that. Tell me more about Casanova.” 

“He arrives at Madeline’s around seven after work. Always parks on the corner. Usually spends the night. Next morning, they go to breakfast around ten.”

“Listen to you. Melvin, P.I.”

“Then he walks her back home, drops her off at the front door, and takes off for work. Did I tell you he drives a Mercedes?” 

“No.” Margo’s interest seemed piqued. “Where do they go for breakfast?”

“There’s a diner two blocks up the street. The apartment is on a back street, so there’s not much traffic. Plenty of room to accidentally bump into him. He keeps his billfold in his inside blazer pocket. I think his watch is a Rolex.”

“Shit, Melvin. You wouldn’t know a Rolex from a Timex. Nice job, though. Maybe I misjudged you. Tomorrow morning, park directly across the street from the apartment. Leave your passenger-side door unlocked. I’ll come by around nine forty-five to check things out. What kind of car do you drive?” 

“Green AMC Gremlin.”

Margo laughed. “You lady-killer, you.” 

A warm and overcast day. He stopped for a coffee, as usual. Parked where Margo said. It was hot in the car, the AC still not working. He leaned across and opened the passenger-side window, then turned sideways in his seat to stretch his legs. Sipped the coffee slowly. A long night, he’d barely slept a wink. 

At nine forty-five, there was still no sign of Margo. Five minutes later, the front door of the apartment building opened and out came Madeline and Casanova. He slumped down in his seat to avoid detection. They were both on their phones, seemingly oblivious to each other and their surroundings. They walked slowly up the street toward the diner. 

He was relieved to see Margo waiting on the corner. She started walking toward them, pretending to rummage through her pocketbook. About ten feet away, she sped up, headed straight for Casanova. Melvin braced himself. At the last second, she veered in between them. The impact was enough to knock Madeline’s phone out of her hand and turn Casanova sideways. Margo tossed her handbag into the air just like at Carlson’s. Melvin thought he saw her hand slip into Casanova’s blazer pocket, but it all happened so quickly he couldn’t be sure. 

He didn’t have a problem with her taking Casanova’s wallet, but wished Madeline didn’t have to be there. 

“Hey!” Margo cried out. “I’m walking here!” 

Loud enough for Melvin to hear. He smiled. Her M.O., it seemed.

Madeline said something to her Melvin couldn’t hear.  

“You got that right!” Margo snapped, as if playing to a crowd. Melvin thought she seemed to be talking extra loud, as if for his benefit. “The two of you just shuffling down the middle of the sidewalk like you owned it.” 

Casanova just held up his phone and shrugged. He may have said something, but Melvin couldn’t hear it.

Margo shook her head. “Yeah, sure, blame the phone. I just hope you drive better than you walk.” 

Casanova retrieved Margo’s pocketbook. Margo picked up Madeline’s phone from the sidewalk and handed it to her. 

Madeline and Casanova continued up the street, back on their phones as if nothing had happened. Margo continued in the opposite direction, walking back toward Melvin. From across the street, she gave him a thumbs-up. He hoped she might flash the wallet, but no. She crossed toward him. He double-checked to make sure the passenger-side door was unlocked. She stopped in front of his passenger-side window, removed the keys from her pocket and jingled them. “Thanks, Melvin. I think I got my mojo back!”  

Melvin was surprised when she just stood there.  

Madeline and Casanova were just about to cross at the corner when Casanova stopped dead in his tracks and frisked himself. “Fuck!” he yelled, then turned around and broke into a sprint. His unbuttoned blazer caught the wind and fluttered like a cape behind him. As Casanova neared, Melvin could hear the rhythmic shuffling of his alligator loafers. He turned to warn Margo but she was already gone, sprinting toward the Mercedes parked on the corner. He ducked as Casanova ran past, then sat up in time to hear Margo gun the engine. Through the back window, he watched the car rocket out of sight.     

Across the street, Casanova was on the phone, Melvin assumed with the police. He paced back and forth on the sidewalk like a caged tiger.

Melvin had slumped back down in his seat. “Shit!” he whispered. Certainly not what he had expected, not by a long shot. He was afraid to start the engine and pull out, in case they might see him. He remembered what Margo said. “A life of crime, Melvin, it’s not for everyone.” She was right on that account. Stealing a wallet was one thing, a luxury car quite another. Never in a million years.

Melvin lifted his head just slightly so he could see what was going on. Madeline was trying to console Casanova. To Melvin, he looked unconsolable. Then she stepped to the curb, and raised her arm as a taxi whizzed by. “Oh, look,” she said, pointing across the street. “There’s Melvin’s car.”

Hearing her say his name, he sat up straight. 

“And there’s Melvin. Hi, Melvin,” she shouted and waved. Was it his imagination or did she actually seem happy to see him?

At first the name didn’t seem to register with Casanova. Then his face tensed, as if recalling a bad dream. “Melvin? You mean Merlin? I’ll bet he was in on it!” He started across the street, fists clenched. Melvin barely had time to reach across the passenger side to slap down the manual door lock, forgetting the window was still open. 

Dan Shapiro was recently published in SORTES magazine. A Quality Assurance Analyst for most of his life, he now writes. He lives in Framingham, MA, with his wife and cat, Cisco.