She looks at the clock. “Pete… Mr Moore… I’m afraid that at this minute I have absolutely no interest in flirting. If you want to give me a ride, I would be very happy to have dinner with you. But-”

“That’s good enough for me,” he says. “But you’ll be driving your own car, I think, so I’ll meet you. Would five-thirty be okay?''Yes, fine, but-”

“Okay.” Pete feels happy. That’s good; happy is good. A lot of days these last couple of years he hasn’t felt within a holler of happy, and he doesn’t know why. Too many late and soggy nights cruising the bars along 302 between here and North Conway? Okay, but is that all? Maybe not, but this isn’t the time to think about it. The lady has an appointment to keep. If she keeps it and sells the house, who knows how lucky Pete Moore might get? And even if he doesn’t get lucky, he’s going to be able to help her. He feels it.

“I’m going to do something a little weird now,” he says, “but don’t let it worry you, okay? It’s just a little trick, like putting your finger under your nose to stop a sneeze or thumping your forehead when you’re trying to remember someone’s name. Okay?”

“Sure, I guess,” she says, totally mystified.

Pete closes his eyes, raises one loosely fisted hand in front of his face, then pops up his index finger. He begins to tick it back and forth in front of him.

Trish looks at Cathy, the counter-girl. Cathy shrugs as if to say Who knows?

“Mr Moore?” Trish sounds uneasy now. “Mr Moore, maybe I just ought to-”

Pete opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and drops his hand. He looks past her, to the door.

“Okay,” he says. “So you came in His eyes move as if watching her come in. “And you went to the counter…” His eyes go there. “You asked, probably, “Which aisle’s the aspirin in?" Something like that.”