ABSTRACT
It is time for me to hurry to work too, and I exchange my ritual farewell with Mr Lofaro, the short, thick-bodied, white-aproned fruit man who stands outside his doorway a little up the street, his arms folded, his feet planted, looking solid as earth itself. We nod; we each glance quickly up and down the street, then look back to each other and smile. We have done this many a morning for more than ten years and we both know what it means: all is well.
