He looks so different this late. In the glow of his porch light, his hair is messier. He wears checkered pajama pants and a baggy, faded Chicago Bulls tee. There are small dips under his eyes, but over them are round, wire-rimmed glasses. I bite my bottom lip to hold in my laughter. “You wear glasses?” He takes the glasses off, examines them, then puts them back on. “I do?”
