|
Tymon walked up to the large red door at 17 Fulham Road and knocked three times. He paused, then knocked again while turning to face the street. The sun and its glare bouncing off the cars parked along the curb made him squint... and as he did, he took in and let out a long, deep breath. He was tired. Or, more to the point, he was exhausted. It was that odd kind of exhaustion that envelopes you when you've been crying. With every intake of that fresh, sun-soaked air, Tymon felt rejuvenated... but every exhale robbed him of this newfound energy. Tymon noticed a keen sharpness of his senses standing on this suburban porch, facing this suburban lawn, down this suburban cul-de-sac, in this suburban community. Sounds pierced his ears with a ferocity that was almost frightening. The wind's rush, the tree's sway, the bird's whistle... all seemed somehow amplified, almost giving them some sort of heretofore unknown significance. Colors popped into the realm of hyper-real. The greenest greens and the bluest blues, surreal in their vividness. And the smell. A smell so overpowering Tymon could have sworn he was eating a slice of Spring. He began to have second thoughts. "What am I doing here? This isn't... I mean, I shouldn't... I mean, why me?" He began to silently sob. "Get it together, you idiot," he mumbled to himself as he glanced up and down the sidewalk to make sure no one was watching. Tymon adjusted and smoothed his tie and took another long, deep breath to compose himself. He then turned back towards the door and knocked once more. Finally he heard footsteps advancing across the hardwood floor of the foyer inside. When the footsteps stopped, Tymon braced. Albert's wife slowly opened the large red door. This was going to be hard. |