The evening is unseasonably warm. His feet are bare and his shirt is off when he strolls to the security console in his study to answer a call at the front gate.

When he turns on the camera, a tall, young man stands in a pool of light.

—Yes, who is it?

—Good evening, Jimmy.

—I’ll ask once more. Who are you?

The tall, young man steps forward, leans in and down a bit. Puts his face right next to the camera.

—You know me. We met on the street one night in 1968.

—Piss off. Jimmy says, ending the call before plodding away from the security panel, he doesn’t make time for wasters like this one.

—I think you’d better talk to me, Jimmy.

Jimmy stops. Ending the call blocks further harassment. Maybe it’s not working? Jimmy knows better, but something about the young man’s tone, to say nothing of his audacity, really rubs Jimmy the wrong way.

—Listen up, lad. Get your bloody ass off my stoop or I’ll have it thrown in jail. I’m not fucking you around, this is the last I’ll say about it.

The young man continues to stare into the camera, unblinking for a good ten seconds.

—Be seeing you. He says, stepping away. He takes a few strides toward the street, stops. Looks over his shoulder at the camera, at Jimmy watching through it, and smiles. Then starts to dance, his body flowing gracefully, before spinning like a figure skater. His form pulls into itself, tighter and tighter, a dark cylinder, a pole, a line. The line sinks into the street, vanishing.