The neighbors across the street from us are an older couple — perhaps in their late fifties? Their lawn is immaculate (how THAT is managed is a post for another day), cars pristine, and I’ve never seen George in anything less than khakis and a polo. Well, unless he is tending his lawn. Then he’s down to denim shorts and a polo.
One evening, I see Harriet yanking on the screen door frantically. Her car is running and apparently the front door is locked as well. Evidently, the screen accidentally locked and quite effectively preventing her from getting back into her home.
Soon I watch her digging through her car, emptying the glove box. She gets back out with a large screwdriver and starts to painstakingly pry the screen away from the door frame. I look at Aaron and ask if he is going to go over and help. The response is one of incredulous disbelief.
“Her husband will come after me if it isn’t absolutely perfect. I can’t live up to his standards!”
So I watch some more. After she got back into the house, she left and returned. But not with shopping bags or groceries like I thought. She came back with a screen door identical to the one on her house, minus the broken screen. It was hung before nightfall and I can’t tell you where she dumped the ruined door.
And she did it all in red heels. My kind of woman.