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hold on to.
CAN’T SAY IT’S “NICE” INSIDE
But it isn’t horrible. My nose
says so. It smells of cinnamon
apple room freshener—fake
but not bad. You couldn’t call
the place neat, but it isn’t dirty.
Everything shrieks “seventies.”
Red/purple shag carpet. Thick
velour drapes. Linoleum in
the hall (and, no doubt, kitchen
and bathrooms). Dated. Used.
I notice all this without stepping
foot through the door. Too many
people in the way right now.
Ms. Shreeveport has to work
her way past a short, too-perky
blonde and a bear-sized, bear-
colored man. Brown hair.
Brown skin. Brooding brown
eyes. George Clooney,
he ain’t. Wonder who he is.
FINALLY, I’M IN
Introductions are passed round.
Blonde, with a loopy smile.
Hi, Summer, I’m Tanya.
Bear remains quiet, so Shreeveport
says, And this is Mr. Clooney.
Bear finally opens his curtain
of silence, corrects, Call me Walter.
