When I was seven (it was a spring day, I know so because my mind insists on drenching that memory in a yellow hue), I heard the story of the moon landing and its moral for the first time: with well-shined shoes and the right outfit, anything is possible. And, to shield me from the nature of life, I think, D added that a little luck was needed too.
The same afternoon I polished my patent leather shoes with a brush, put on a green dress that I teamed with green socks, and decided I would be D’s assistant.
I went out to the patio, lit a cigarette, and took a slow drag. I’d stolen it from D’s pack, for in the evenings he fell asleep smoking in front of the television.