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      I read our new address to her from a card I’d be keeping next to the phone for a couple of days until I was sure of the new address.
      “And tomorrow?” she asked.
      “Tomorrow?”
      “There will be one,” she said, with a charming, flute-like lilt to her voice.
      “But I don’t know if we’ll want pizza again so soon.”
      “You haven’t tasted ours yet.”
      “Can I let you know tomorrow?”
      “Sure,” she said. “Twenty minutes.”
      In that odd, little town, near the border with Rhode Island, Cindy and I had rented a house on a corner where hedges and trees formed two nearly solid walls along the road frontage. There was a stretch of six feet of foliage near the corner that was shorter, less dense, and lighter in color than the rest, as if it had been recently replanted. That was where I decided to take up my post.
      Wherever we live I always sit in the yard for the first few mornings to check out the commuters. One or two in each vehicle, they pass by like products on a catalog page. Mostly it’s Sears, although in parts of Vermont it verges on Mountain Coop, and in Texas, nearly always Stetson.
      I placed a wicker chair behind the shortest stretch of hedges, thought about the superb pizza we’d had last night for dinner, and waited for rush hour to begin. But it never did. The town didn’t seem to have any commuters. There was traffic, all right, but not in waves or swells. I sat in the wicker chair throughout that first morning, and watched cars and pedestrians passing our new house on a very steady basis. It was as if we were in a retirement community where no one needed to be anywhere at a particular time, except that the ages of the people in the cars were as varied as you’d find anywhere else.

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