Trip

Mystery House Man walks down the street. He lives on a hill top in a big house that stands out among the others with their tidy lawns and historic address plates secured above screened porches. I hush my excitement upon seeing him, pulling along the dogs to keep pace. Mystery House Man holds an empty plastic bag. He crosses at my usual spot. So we go together (sort of), slightly apart, then head in different directions. I stop for ice cream (my destination). He re-enters the frame, exits the laundromat. His plastic bag remains empty. He goes to the liquor store. Bag still empty. He returns to the laundromat, opens the outer door, reaches inside, and departs. Plastic bag in hand. Not sure now about its emptiness. Maybe Mystery House Man picks up free newspapers like the neighborhood rag featuring neighborhood crime news and coupons. He stops, stands, looking at the back wall of the gas station's convenience store. Across the street, I look down at my ice cream cone, looking for one more lick. A good flavor gone. I look up. No more Mystery House Man.