He ambles up, plunks
his oxygen on the counter.
I notice his veteran's cap
when my eyes flick up to
greet him. He unfolds his
money with long, careful
fingers. "You like the music?"
He asks me. Pachelbel's
Canon in D plays softly
on the radio. I do, and
I tell him so. "Pachelbel,"
He says, half to himself,
then adds, "Only thing I
don't like about him is
when you've heard the first
few measures, you've
heard it all."