That Lonely Lost and Found
(excerpt)

It only really made a difference when he considred it in the context
of that sad elementary afternoon spent at the lost and found, waiting
for her to arrive, somehow show up and turn the tables on his
purgatoried soul.  It was a long wait in a winding line on badly
gummed concrete, and no one should have had to wait there, let alone
him.  This was an outrage, a dithering of emotion unwarranted by the
situation, but by its dissimilarity to his expectations, strangely
disturbing.  She never came, not then, not at that lonely lost and
found.  That goes without saying.  But this, presently, connected the
dots, played out like a mad libs in his world-weary mind.  It all was
coming together -- the jade green doorway, the slight twist of lemon
on her ennuied lips.  He broke the toothpick between his back molars
-- well, the only ones he had -- took one look back at the fumes
smiling their way under the doorframe, and twisted his neck around
three times before he heard it crack.