Riches Under Water
“Are you looking for Fenn’s treasure?”
The question caught me offhand. I assumed our brief exchange was over. My door, half ajar, jut between us and I peeked around the top of the tinted glass to verify this question with my eyes.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Are you here looking for Fenn’s treasure?” The man stood with two sets of glasses, one polarized which he wore over his face and the other clear, perched on top of his black bicycling hat. He wore a white cotton sweater that had seen its share of the sun or washing machines or both. His legs were covered in black tights and his feet wore dark brown Merrell’s, somewhat new, which scratched the gravel of the parking lot we both stood on. Again, my mind juggled the words in an incomprehensible wonder of, am I hearing him correctly? and, did he say treasure?
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