on the threshold.
He wore faded jeans, an old gray t-shirt, and a canvas tool belt around his waist. Sawdust clung to his shoulders. His glasses had slipped down halfway up his nose.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
He looked at me.
Then my car.
Then it was my turn.
I expected to feel guilty if I ever caught Wendell hiding something from me.
On the contrary, his face expressed panic.
Not the panic of a man caught with another woman.
The panic of a man whose birthday present had been opened two weeks earlier.
“Winnie,” he repeated.
“Hello, Wendell.”
He took off his glasses.
“You weren’t supposed to come here so early.”
I crossed my arms.
“That’s generally not what a woman wants to hear when she arrives at
