We could hear everything between the windows across our tiny alley way on G Street, all the yelling, the crying, the crashing bottles. Then one summer’s night, he squealed away in his Pinto, and he never came back.
I saw her the next evening, sitting on the bench on her front porch adjacent to our kitchen door, sipping a Tab, doing her toenails. She looked sad, like she needed a shoulder to cry on.
“Hey, I’m going to walk to the farmer’s market. Want to come with?” I said, feeling neighborly.
“No thanks,” she said. “I just broke up with my boyfriend. I don’t want to meet any men tonight.”
“Oh, oh, right,” I said.
I felt awkward in the silence. Maybe there’d been a misunderstanding. Well, I did say “farmer’s market.”
Maybe she was from out of state.