“Can I help you?” he asked again.
He was in his forties, maybe. Neatly dressed in a light blue shirt, tan trousers, expensive but dusty loafers. A wedding ring on his left hand. Sunglasses pushed up on his head. His black sedan was parked where my grandmother used to park her old white Buick when she came over with groceries she insisted I did not know how to buy properly.
I shifted the carry-on strap higher on my shoulder.
“Actually,” I said, “I live here.”
The man blinked.
Not dramatically. Not the way someone blinks when he thinks you are lying. More like the way a person blinks when one version of reality has just bumped into another and he is trying to decide which one has the legal right of way.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “What did you say your name was?”
I did not like that question. Not in my driveway.
“Marissa Crowwell.”
His face changed.
