“Where are you from, Joel?” he asked.

             I almost choked on my hot white chocolate double mocha latte.  I never tell people where I am from, you never know who might catch up with you.  But I felt I needed to tell him something, after all, he didn’t call the police.

               “I’m from…”  I hesitated.  I pictured my childhood days and realized how long ago it was.  I thought about what it was like to play in the back of my mother’s dress shop in the city.  But that was all gone now.  No one even remembers it.  Then I remembered the magazine.  How silly of me.  I was so smitten by Mr. Felix’s jacket that I had forgotten about The Voyeur.  I guess that happens a lot.

                “I’m from the basement,” I said, “of The Voyeur.”

                “Pardon?” he said.