Her voice had a slightly turdiform quality to it, melodic, thrilling, yet annoying if it carried on too long. He therefore, never let himself linger, never even ascended the porch. Just spoke to her – sometimes with one foot propped on the bottom step – from the sidewalk, exchanging pleasantries. Before she’d launch too far into a tale of woe, or shift gears into neighborhood gossip, he’d excuse himself and move on. The memory of her melodic (yet brief) trilling carrying him down the street. It was enough to carry him through, into the night.

She wondered if he might be gay.