The Percentage Man by Tim Bennett
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Eighty seven percent of the people in the first three quarters of this year pushed the doorbell, thirteen percent used the knocker, and one man pounded. He stood outside my door the longest, pounding away for five minutes, twenty eight seconds, and one kick. Normally, I never answer my door, but this time I do. She pushes the bell and I open the door for once. I prefer dusk over other periods of the day an amazing ninety five percent of the time. There is a good forty percent chance of the sky turning the best shade of purple and sometimes-sixty two percent of the time-the altocumulus clouds will rebound the pink sunlight unto the lower horizon and make the town glow: a radioactive isotope with a half-life of fifteen seconds. A half hour will go by and it will be gone, eroded into a cold blue twilight. Her hair hangs loose to her shoulders, overtaking them by two centimeters. It is darker than the sky-which is losing its light as the sun inches further beyond the vanishing point-by several shades at least but I cannot say for certain without my chart that I do not have time to get right now. It is hanging on the north wall of the bedroom, so it is seventy five percent likely that I will have the opportunity to record her hair later. She wears a simple black tank top, an easy shirt to handle, and a matching skirt that only descends a half foot from her hips that roll so slightly over it by just a centimeter, I would say. She carries a purse with her, six by four by two, also black, small but big enough to hold what she needs. Her pumps are black as well, with six inch spikes acting as heels. They look uncomfortable. She pulls the air with her diaphragm through the white cigarette with the typical cork looking filter in her left hand and stares at me impatiently for a mere twenty seconds, though it seems longer, more like thirty. "You're Steve, right?" she asks finally, the smoke pumping out of her mouth as she talks. "That is right. And you are Tiffany." "I am now," she says as she exhales another breath from the cigarette. "Can I come in now? It's a little cold out here." "Could you put out your cigarette first, please? A smoker is eighty two percent more likely to develop lung cancer, and even second hand smoke can-- [read on] |
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