nobody knows everything
Ichabod’s eyebrows narrowed to a squinting grimace, mouth pulled to a rictus reserved more for doubt than mirth. He rubbed his stubbled chin and read the sign out loud. Closed Until Yesterday. Then he repeated, declaring each word a sentence. Closed. Until. Yesterday.
Ichabod unfurled a long-fingered palm under the word Yesterday and shrugged. What do you make of this? he said to nobody in particular. Nobody was there to hear, which is fair for no one listens well.
When nobody answered, Ichabod began blinking. Rapidly. He wandered a distance from the door, hand again on chin, lips pursed white, then returned to the sign, stared at the preposition, and tilted his head to the right. Are you sure? he whispered.
A moment later his head jerked back as if he’d stepped on a cliché-sharp tack. Ichabod pulled himself to full height. He gathered his furled blue umbrella, and the parcel wrapped in kraft paper, tucking the latter under an arm, almost to the pit.
Then I shall have to return, he intoned with emphasis on Shall, and lifted the umbrella tip to Yesterday thrusting an accusatory jab that left little doubt he knew how.
I simply won’t be here Tomorrow.
