Kate Wyer

The man is holding a box of frozen pizzas. His hand is freezer burned. Ice has surrounded the hand. The hand is stuck to the bottom of the box. The pizzas are the small kind—French breads.  

My mom has a great smile but she does not smile very often. Men must know about the smile somehow, though. They see the possibility of it in her face.  

One of the neighbors bought food from the man with the pizzas and he now frequents the neighborhood going door to door with his cold hands and laminated menu. His truck says "Swann." He is the "Swann Man."

It is easy to buy pizza for kids, especially the little French breads.

The man doesn't care to see my mom's smile. He is content knowing other men know the possibility. He wants to come into the house. She hesitates, considers her words.

The man misreads the hesitation. He steps closer, puts his hand on the door. She says something strong, like, "Leave!"

Or, no, she doesn't say that. She thanks him and says she doesn't need pizzas this week, no, not next week either. She turns the dead bolt.  

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