Tonight the Mormons came. I had been expecting them.
Once, a while ago, I sat quietly when they knocked until they left. (They are the only ones who knock so boisterously.) But tonight I opened the door, squinted, leaned in uncomfortably close, tried to read their nametags with contactless eyes.
"This is brother Carson, and I'm brother Neuhaus," said the dapper lad on the right. Hand extended, cold handshake. Names matched tags. Good so far.
"Ah," I said. I had nothing more eloquent available.
"We're new in the neighborhood, just wondering if other brothers have visited before."
"I can't remember," I said. It was three-quarters true.
Briefest of pauses.
"Well, thanks, nice to meet you, good night."
Dismay. "Maybe we could help take the trash out?" Because you're obviously weak and infirm? Because we're scraping for an excuse to chill in your kitchen, so we can talk about Joe Smith and Moroni and golden tablets?
"Uh, no thanks, not really. In fact, you won't need to visit anymore."
I couldn't quite see if their faces registered dejection or disappointment, because the door closed too fast.
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