He was dressed in the usual khaki, but in the style of a Victorian officer's jacket, with extra rows of shiny buttons and a multitude of pockets. A miniature brass telescope hung from a cord around his neck. His pith helmet was of course topped with goggles.
He pointed at her wide-brimmed hat. “Very Truly Scrumptious, the whole outfit. I'm Ford. I should know your name. Sorry.”
“Nicotiana,” she said. “You're going to the steampunk meeting?”
“No, I always dress like this. It amuses the neighbor children.”
Was he joking? Yes, he must be. Not sure what to say, she gave her usual pleasant professional reply. Actually, she meant to say that he looked nice, but what she blurted was, “The outfit suits you.”
“Oh, I hope not!”
And then she remembered why he looked familiar, even if the name Ford sounded wrong. He had stood quietly by a casket in a dark suit, his face stiff in an effort to hold back tears. She was all too familiar with the expression.
No, she wouldn't mention it. Obviously, he had forgotten where they'd met.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish