'The Street That Repeats Itself', (or 'More of Steve's Calvinoesque gibberish illo-stories') ...Every evening the street rehearsed the same scene, like a story the town refused to finish. The driver arrived first. He parked with the accuracy of a ritual, hands still on the wheel, face turned toward the house as if waiting for permission to breathe. He never got out. The car idled like a held sentence. If you watched long enough you’d notice he wasn’t looking at the door. He was looking at the upstairs window, as though the window might finally blink. She arrived second, not in the car. She stood on the curb in a dark dress, shoulders tight, pretending her body was just another shadow. She had the expression of someone who’d returned to collect something small and heavy, like a ring or an apology. The house light painted her cheekbones blue and made her look young in the cruel way streetlights do, as if time had been kind when it hadn’t. And upstairs, the third character moved behin...