Even though twenty years have passed, the professor looks much the same as when he wore sport coat and chalk-smudged tie. He is a short, bald man, having gone to tiptoes to fill the upper recesses of the green board, his white socks flashing with the speed of his dance. Now, as the professor reaches to trim the hedge’s raised ends, white heels flash from his flip-flops like the insides of oysters in the sun. It is a difficult reach, holding the trimmer level to sculpt the hedge ends just so. As I sit in my car with the window up listening to the muted sound of the hedge trimmer, the GPS lady, apparently having thought long and hard about my earlier question about others having nightmares, or perhaps hearing the whir of the hedge trimmer, asks me to repeat my destination.
... To be continued