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      “Life on the edge.”
      “It’s all a mystery.”
      The aroma of that pizza filled our entire evening. Cindy took a long bath and afterward put on the thin night gown, and we had one of those evenings that goes on and on. Some pizza will do that.
      The traffic stream the next morning was again unvarying. Every few minutes a car or SUV would pass, and that was about it. Pretty dull, even for suburbia. Finally, I decided to take a walk. Cindy would be sleeping for the next couple of hours, so I slipped into the house long enough to put a note and a flower from the garden on the bedside table, and pick up the champagne glasses from where we’d dropped them on the floor.
      Technically, it was autumn, but Massachusetts hadn’t yet noticed, and the air was still summer-moist and hot. Most of the houses were set well back from the road, and nearly all had well-established flower gardens, and mature trees. The only sign of life was down at the end of the block where I could hear the sound of a lawnmower chewing its way through thick grass. It was as good a direction to go in as any.
      Cindy always tells me that I’m too friendly, that I should stand back in a new neighborhood and let the neighbors come to me. “They might figure something out,” she says, “and then what would we do?”
      “Move, of course,” I answer, deadpan, and it never fails to crack us up.
      The guy on the riding mower at the end of the block looked familiar enough that I stopped fifty yards away and hid behind a huge Maple that overhung the road. When the General Pizza delivery truck drove slowly past, I used it as cover to make my way a few trees further down the street.

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