Barbara knocked on the frame of the open door. A woman in green track suit answered, “Whadya want?”
“Is this the Bernfield residence?”
“No.” She paused. She was smoking a cigarette. No filter. Her iridescent green track suit had seen better days. “This is the Bernstein residence.”
“Oh,” said Barbara, trying to sound upbeat, as if she had heard good news. “Well, I thought it was the Bernfield residence….”
“It’s not,” said Mrs. Bernstein.
“Yes, that’s true,” said Barbara. “But what I was wondering wa could we photograph your basketball hoop?”
“My basketball hoop?”
“Your basketball hoop.” “What the hell for?”
“Well, we are out photographing basketball hoops. And we drove by and saw yours.”
“Just don’t rile up my llamas.”
Barbara turned to look around. To her right, in a corral were two llamas. They turned their heads, looking quizzical
“They sensitive,” said Mrs. Bernstein. “They don’t cotton to dersive comments.”
Barbara said, “I think llamas are very nice.”
Mrs. Bernstein turned away obviously doubting the sincerity of the interloper at the door. “Go ahead,” the murmured as she disappessed.