Page 6 of Sunset Catchers

In fact, it is so bright, I have to squint to look at in the light of day. It’s definitely unexpected and kind of out there.

Sure, most people would’ve gone with a neutral and boring color. But that is not what is happening here. And I love my new boss all the more for that.

We are definitely on the same colorful wavelength.

At this exact moment, the sunshine yellow front door opens. Its owner steps through the threshold. I hurry and make my way up the paved walkway with its tulip companions, taking my client in while walking.

She is wearing a vintage, light-pink caftan-style dress covered in big purple and fuchsia flowers. Her bright pink painted lips are pulled into a frank grin, her green irises sharp. White hair pulled back into a neat, low bun. I love when people are the living embodiment of their home.

“Winnie, you made it!” Her voice breathes genuine cheerfulness.

“Hi, Mrs. Harrington!” I thrust my hand toward her. I had taken to calling her by her first name through our email exchange, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous that I could carry this ease into our real life encounters.

She bats my hand away and pulls me into a hug that lasts longer than you’d expect. Which is perfect for me; it always takes me an extra second to process this kind of physical contact.

My brain sends a signal to my limbs; I hug her back.

She releases me, but only to hold me at arm’s length.

“Please, with the Mrs. Harrington nonsense,” she gently scolds me, “Call me Kit.”

2

I’m holding a flower shaped ashtray. It’s made of brass and feels heavy in my hand. These days, everything is so flimsy and plasticky; I love the sturdiness and quality of a good antiquity.

“It’s really pretty,” I tell Kit. She beams at me.

“My grandson got it for me as a gift last Christmas.”

“It’s a nice addition to your collection.” We’re standing in front of an antique, bright turquoise cabinet with glass inserts in the parlor, which displays Kit’s collection of ashtrays. There are more than forty.

“Do you still use some of those?”, I ask her.

“Oh, no. I’ve never smoked cigarettes.”

I bob my head. Makes total sense.

I’m putting the ashtray back to its designated place when a voice calls out to her from the front of the house.

“Kit?”

“In the parlor,” she calls back.

I love when people use the fancy names for rooms in their homes. The parlor is a swanky living room with sofas that I doubt anyone has ever sat in. Which is very on theme for a woman collecting ashtrays even if she never smoked a day in her life.

A huge, luscious floating bouquet of flowers pops up in the doorway. It’s really pretty with its bright shades of peaches and pinks and greens and violets.

“Got you some flowers. Should I put them in a vase?” the bouquet inquires.

“Beautiful, dear. Yes, please. Use the light-blue Murano glass vase. It’ll go perfectly.” The flowers disappear under Kit’s command.

I’m guessing the voice belongs to her grandson, since he’s who we’ve been waiting for to start the meeting. We’re running fifteen minutes behind. Plus another five, before he finally appears back as a fully formed body in the doorway.

He steps into the room—it’s him.

The attendant from the gas station.

Frozen a few feet away.