D is for Deloney

A click of the mouse and suddenly I’m on the Danforth, tumbling onto the street like Alice down the rabbit hole. Sometimes it’s hot and steamy there; sometimes cold and gray. Always there is the smell of good food and a many-accented murmur. It’s good to be on the street, but it’s also lovely to take in the view from the window of Deloney’s apartment, the smell of onion and garlic comforting even that which thought it could not be comforted—and Fanny rubbing up against me, purring a bit, pushing a bit, whispering, “Move. That’s my sill.”