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It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the door. She adjusted the bra, thong and sheer peignoir and answered the door.The man standing on the stoop was rather unremarkable, average in height, waistline no longer boyish, nose a bit broad and sandy hair beginning to recede. But when their eyes met both gasped slightly, he from instant recognition and her from awareness that she should know this person, yet a name and the context of knowing him were elusive.“Maria? Maria Canales?” he asked, his eyes lighting up and a smile appearing in immediate reaction.No one had called Maria by her maiden name in years which helped her put the face and voice in some context, but the name would simply not come.“I ... I’m sorry. I feel like I should know you but...”“Roger. Roger Compton,” he laughed. “We were in high school together.”“My god!” she gasped, wrapping the flimsy peignoir around her as if the smiling man couldn’t see every part of her he wanted to see. “Roger! Uh ... uh ... uh ... please. It actually rolled to a stop just as I breathlessly reached the front of the train and saw what was left. Turning away I fell to my knees and I fought to catch my breath while trying not to throw up. People came up behind me but I didn’t hear what they said, the ringing in my ears was too loud. All I can recall for the next several minutes was the odd sight in front of me. There, as the rusty rails seemed to run almost forever, finally converging at a curve far, far down the track, the top of the rail sparkled in the sunlight where the rust had not been allowed to form because of the trail wheels. In the middle of one of the sparkling rails was a silver and red item, about six inches long. Focusing my eyes I realized it was a harmonica. Getting up off my knees I took a step or two closer, squatted down and looked at the harmonica. It was old, obviously used a lot. Most of the metal on the harmonica had been worn smooth, everything but two initials carved into one end: WR. I simply.
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