It was a day made for stillness, and he loitered in the lollipop-orange sunlight.  Whatever workweek drive he possessed had been drycut by the heat of an inner-city July; sweat poured down his face and salted his tongue white.  Immune, he sat motionless in the window frame, his ghostlike skin blistering, the breeze sandy in his greased hair. 

His target wiggled home from Woolworths in black heels, her tiny shorts the only humid thing in town.  She’d wasted the day playing Elizabeth Taylor for some careless and long-gone sailor.

Abruptly soaked, she looked up to meet his jester smile.

“Lenny!”