I drove down our road. We said we would never miss a fall. The leaves were mostly gone. The oak and birch were still vibrant. It had gotten so warm for October, I wondered if the bulbs would be tricked into thinking it was spring again. I knew full well it wasn’t; winter was coming.

I had the top down, and I remembered that silly notion of hers about birds and convertibles.

“Promise me you will never drive with the hood down without your sunglasses,” she had said.

“What are you talking about?” I smiled.

The house had been listed for seven months. It was the only one I could possibly afford. I called Joanne, the realtor I'd spoken to a few times but never met.

“Listen, make an offer—anything—they are ready to sell,” she said.

Her nasal voice was more annoying than usual. I don’t know why but every time I spoke with her I envisioned her sitting on the toilet, putting ruby red nail polish on her toes with her cell phone resting on the urine-ridden filthy tile.

“Seventy-two, that’s all I can do,” I said.