I opened the door and extended the money in one flowing motion, more from practice than a God-given talent.

Expecting to see Ernie, Sal’s nephew, who resembled the Sesame Street puppet of the same name, I made an audible gasp and suddenly felt naked without my shirt.

Instead of Ernie, I had opened the door to a young woman with big brown eyes in an orange, white, and blue uniform, which included a pair of tight-fitting navy blue shorts and a baseball cap.

She had shoulder-length brown hair pulled through the hole in the back of her cap to form a ponytail, and dark skin covering her taut, muscular little body.

She looked confused as I handed her the money, but took it reflexively.

I took the box from her and realized why she looked confused. It was a parcel not a pizza.

The oversized blue block letters on its side read QVC, and then I remembered.

Last Friday night, while unable to sleep, I flipped past a shopping channel and did something I’d never done before. Made a purchase. This parcel contained my new IBM ThinkPad.

“No need for a tip,” she said. “Just your signature.”

“Sorry. Was expecting a pizza.”

She handed me the plastic pen and electronic clipboard and flashed me a quick smile.

As I scrawled out my signature on the screen, I sensed her staring at the round pink scar on my left oblique and long, thin white scar across my chest.

When I looked up at her, she looked away.

“Pizza, huh?” she said, seemingly just wanting to say something.

In the distance, I could hear the sounds of poverty coming from Phase I of Prairie Palm. People with time on their hands and not much else. Children yelling and laughing, the revving of automobile engines, and the loud, distorted music of cheap car stereos and boom boxes swirled together into the sad and badly mixed soundtrack of life in the rural South.

The only artist my ears could discern was John Mellencamp, which justified the volume. Appropriately enough, it was an acoustic version of his tribute to life in a small town.

I was born in a small town and I live in a small town. Prob’ly die in a small town. Oh, those small communities.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have introduced myself. I’m John Jordan.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Educated in a small town. Taught to fear Jesus in a small town.

Used to daydream in that small town. Another boring romantic that’s me.

“Why, what?” I asked.

“Why should you have introduced yourself? I’m just delivering a package. This isn’t a social call.”

“I . . . I thought you were having a hard time deciphering my signature.”

“Your name is on the package,” she said.

“Oh yeah,” I said, shaking my head and frowning. “Sorry. I was just—”