The kids' rooms were all tidy, which for teenagers meant they were probably mentally ill too. There were no posters of rock stars or anything normal like that. This family was one of those that seemed not to have purchased a poster of me in my bright yellow Speedos. There were no TVs in the kids' rooms, and only the oldest boy had a computer. "Repressed", was the word that came to quite a few of my minds.I concentrated on D-Cup's room. The walls of her room were covered by many paintings. Some of them were framed, but most were merely pinned in place, giving me a feeling that they were her creations. If so, then she had quite a lot of talent, according to my very uninformed opinion.Other than art, her room held several soft toys of the type that girls seem to find irresistible, several fine-quality china ballerina figurines in a large display case mounted on a wall, and a musical instrument case that was somewhere between violin- and guitar-size. The room also had a music stand and a. I was the first one at the coffee place that morning, sat in the sunwith paper, coffee, once again, watching the palms so that I didn't seehim arrive, set coffee down, shake out a Bee and read."Another coffee?" he asked, after a while. "On me?"You know, of course, how ordinary things, little things -- a cup ofcoffee, strange bird diving from a palm tree, a grunt over an item inthe morning paper -- can seem illuminated with meaning in the quiet ofan empty street, the morning sun, the feeling somewhere deep beneaththe surface things are changing.You know that you could stay suspended in such a moment forever.But then, the first commuter putters by, the sharp smoke of exhaust isin the air. The coffee's finished, a buzz of voices rises by thecashier."Big day?" he asked, as he stood to go."Could be," I said, perhaps talking about my work. "Maybe I'll nail ittoday, tomorrow." And then?"I shrugged."Depends, I guess. Catch a flight back, it's kinda loose." Weekend's coming," he said.I.
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