a small cigarette while sitting on a cinder block he must have pulled out from under the stairs.  Even though he’s no more than five feet tall and looks friendly, he could have a gun or a knife. In Texas, it’s legal to shoot intruders.  Maybe because it’s Monday morning and I’m running late for work, that I feel only curiosity. He waves and puts out his cigarette on the little laundry table I had hastily put together years ago for my wife.
        “You’re all good today,” he says, running his hand along the edge of the table.
    
I run the iron again over the right sleeve.  Now it looks as if it has a permanent crease.  He stands up.  “All good,” he says, stepping on the cigarette. “Whatever you want to say today, just say it.” He claps me on the back, and when I look up from my ironing, he has disappeared. 
        I put on my shirt and step into the little basement bathroom.  After splashing on some cologne, I look into the mirror. My chest and throat feel quite at ease.  I say, “Hello, my name is Daniel Patrick Carter.” This the first time in more than fifteen years I’ve said the name on my birth certificate without a pause or extended stutter.  I think of all the pseudonyms I’ve used at parties and when calling people I’ll never speak to again.  I say my name again, then again.
    
I go upstairs and bring my wife her morning cup of coffee. I have an urge to say, “I hate how guilty I feel when you come home and see me watching TV. Do you know how many times I’ve turned off Pardon the Interruption or Seinfeld because of the disapproving look you give me? Well, not any more!” I say all this fluently but barely above a whisper. She continues snoring.
    
At work, when my boss says “Good morning,”
I reply in kind.  It comes out much louder than he expects.  I maintain eye contact. He looks on the verge of saying something more, but I head to my

brought nothing to eat.  I stride into the nearby Subway sandwich shop and order a turkey and ham sub on wheat with lettuce, onions, tomato, mustard, vinegar, and dill pickles. It’s wonderful not to have to pick my words so carefully or limit my order.  Since I always have trouble on “d” and “p” words, I savor the pickle.
    
That night, I refuse to fall asleep. I am convinced it will all turn out to be a dream.  Sometime after 2:30 a.m., I finally fall asleep.  I wake up on the floor of our bedroom, trying to figure out where I am. I glance at the clock. My stomach falls at the realization that I will miss my train and be at least 45 minutes late to work.
        Although I should jump in the shower, I take the basement stairs two at a time. The cinder block is no longer in the laundry room.  I look behind the little bar, in the furnace room, even in the washing machine.  The little guy’s not there.  I go back into the little bathroom, look into the mirror and say my name.  I get stuck on “Patrick.”  My face turns red, the air trapped in my throat.  I run out of the room in a panic.  I forgot to check the dryer.
                                                                        @@
    
    
                       About the Author
     
        David Erlewine lives outside of Annapolis, Maryland, with his wife and two kids.  He writes on the train as he commutes to and from work, and late at night.  His stories appear or are forthcoming in about seventy publications, including The Pedestal, Pank, Literal Latte, Elimae, and Ghoti.
His sad little blog [sic] is:
        http://www.whizbyfiction.blogspot.com/.
  
    
    
                                 Copyright © David Erlewine

I’m hurriedly ironing and starching a dress shirt in our basement laundry room when he appears. He wears a faded aqua windbreaker and gray jogging shorts. No socks or shoes. He smokes

 little cubicle. The rest of the day, I don’t dread the phone ringing. I even make a few calls where e-mails ordinarily suffice.
    
At lunch, I realize I'd