I had to go to the little hardware store on 72nd to buy a string of deck lights for the party. A great old, jumbled-up neighborhood place. Too many people working, prices a little high. Every available inch with some tool or paste or fastener.

I presented my purchase to the girl behind the counter. Young, pretty white girl. Seemed vaguely Eastern European.

"Do you know who else hates your sister?" she said absently as she swiped my card.

"Who?" said her coworker. Black guy, late twenties.

"Pizza place guy," she said.

"Thanks," I said, putting the receipt in the bag.

"Have a good day."

Her voice trailed off behind me as I swung open the door:

"Yeah, he..."