His wife is an Analyst at General Electric he says. He himself is studying computers. He wants to be Cisco Certified, drop the paint brush and build databases for companies. "I know C+, PHP, and SQL pretty good," Derrick says, still very focused on the brush he dips into the paint can. He has one daughter, a freshman at St. Mary's in Indiana.

The conversation putters out fairly soon. I announce that I am going for a walk, as if it's part of a routine. I even stretch a little in the room before breaking away. Derrick turns up his music after I close the door.

I would love to keep walking and never return, or at least keep walking until everything about my life has shifted and settled into a better place. Maybe it would help if the whole house, with Derrick still in it, got swept up in a Wizard of Oz tornado. Derrick would float on by, still painting like nobody's business — bopping and swaying his head to the radio. I don't know who would be the witch, maybe Alice, but I don't think so. I would be the little dog of course, lost and running scared with little feet.

The office girls have brought in bagels to welcome me back. They know about Alice leaving, they know I'm a guy on the mend, and not just from the attack. I over compensate this with plenty of jokes and weigh in with the guys on last night's basketball. It's all part of the package. It's all part of the internal struggle of a smiling man. I even whistle as I fix my bagel.

Mid-morning I buy a Honey Bun from the vending machine. I pop it into the microwave, only to burn two fingers quite badly on the frosting. The pain makes it hard to focus on work, nonetheless, I check in a LeMans for a leaky transmission, a Grand Prix for brakes, a Transport for brakes, and a Bonneville for an oil change. Every customer I see has something about them that rubs me. I know it's me, but it doesn't make me internalize any less, giving names to these people long after they're gone. Wide-Load, Tubbs, Buddy, and Ass-face. Ass-face is actually for Roger my boss. He has been nothing but gracious, sympathetic, and generous, and deep down in my dark mouth, somewhere near my heart, I come up with, Ass-face.

A couple of coworkers have offered to take me to lunch, but I pass. When I'm ailing, I want to be alone. Even on dead battery Mondays, cold breath cloud Tuesdays, and all through my sinus infection Januarys; I want to be alone.

Back in the real world of hand shakes, pat-on-the-backs, questions, foul smells, rain and fog, I need something to drink. On my lunch hour I stop at Atticus Liquors next to the Adams Sav-U. I buy a mini bottle of Absolute and a 16 oz. Code Red Mountain Dew. I then drive with this brown bag across the street to the Perkins.

The restaurant's lot is open with spaces far enough away from the building, but not too far back that I look suspicious. I twist the cap on the soda, dump half of it onto the pavement, then fill the gap with booze. It goes down nicely. I tune into the Slaughter Hour, catching the tail end of Iron Man, which is followed by Highway Star. It's foggy outside and I sip and watch the cars approach the intersection. When the light is green, the car lights float by like fish — appearing only long enough to register them. The fog is so thick, it is nearly a world of nothing.

Barker Road lies between the Perkins and the Motel Six. In the center of Barker Road is a median with a merge-right sign stuck right in the middle of it. Now something you can't see with the fog, but tied to the merge-right sign is a plastic flower wreath that signifies were some poor soul, a sixty-year old man, was struck down and killed on his motorcycle last fall. It was Indian summer. It was the same day that Alice said she was leaving. I play out our mornings together, me and the cyclist. I play out what his day was like before getting wiped out by a Ryder truck at rush hour, what mine was like before the movie started rewinding in the VCR, the click, then Alice talking. The man had died at the scene.

I play with the cap from the soda. Inside of it, it reads: NBA jersey winner! See store for details. As I finish up the last of my cocktail, the cell in my pocket rings. It's Derrick, and it's difficult to hear him. He seems to be surrounded by noise or a bad connection. He says there's been a small accident at the house.