An Address

You wait until the wheel is on its frame, and then you ask what he is looking for.

He doesn't stop working. An address, he says.

He takes an index card from his shirt pocket and a pencil from behind his ear, and draws three dots on the corner of the card, in a row, evenly spaced. He holds it out. You wait for the rest of it. That's the part I have, he says.

A woman next to you says there is a church lot where they fold cubes on Saturdays, under the live oaks. Tomorrow, she says. He looks at the card in your hand, and then at the wheel. He picks up his wrench.