Short Fiction--The Guy Next Door: Part 7

The girl next door (gND) wears a hat when she takes the dog out walking early in the morning. She wears it pulled way down low over her eyes. I can tell the old timers think she's cute as their peer out from behind their window shades, watching her walk down the street. 

She probably reminds them of their younger days. With her hair down, wearing long skirts, clogs, and scarf she is reminiscent of Annie Hall. But, when her hair's rolled and she's wearing a fitted A-Line, she takes on Betty Grable. 

When I first met her, she was wearing the hat. She talked nervously about the two biddies across the street having called her in the middle of the night because they had thought that I'd shot myself. 

"You had left your truck door ajar and they noticed the light. Then, they heard a noise and became worried. They are very good neighborhood watchmen, if not much of anything else."

Gotta say, I couldn't hear a word she said. Couldn't make it past the hat. The hat and the shades. Because, the hat wasn't enough, I guess. She needed the over sized sun glasses, too. The hat, the shades, and the nonstop chatter. What a ninny.

Myself, I'm not a hat guy. I do wear shades, though. A lifetime biker, I wear leather and I wear Ray-bans. Not afraid to admit it. Difference is, I look cool and she doesn't. 

There's something about her, though, that keeps me coming to my window, just like Jim and Carl and Richard do whenever they hear her door slam. Hat or no hat, there's something about her, this ninny who is my neighbor.

Today, she's gardening in the space between our houses. She's wearing the stupid hat. But, that's doesn't even matter, because what's worse is that she's barefoot and digging in the dirt with her bare hands. 

Who does that here in Florida where deadly parasites live in the soil? I am out the door in a heartbeat.

"Morning," I say. I've come out to warn her, before it's too late. 

She looks up at me from where she is embedded in her garden bed on unsheathed knees. Swiping hair off her face, she leaves a track of dirt across her cheek. 

"Nice," I thought. Instead, I smile. 

"Good morning!" She rises and extends a filthy hand. I look at it horrified, but oblige her. "We haven't officially met," she explains.

"How's the unpacking going?"

But, again, I can't respond. Only this time it's because she's taken off her glasses and is smiling at me. Her eyes are smiling, her lips are smiling, her whole being is smiling and I'm suddenly stunned. I'm sinking and I can't remember how to swim and I'm going to drown. I just know it. 

"Oh, em, fine. Yeah, almost finished," I nod. Because turns out I can swim after all.

"So, hey--yeah, you may want to wear these when you garden. There's deadly parasites that live in the ground here." I hand her a spare pair of garden gloves.

"Seriously?" She doesn't look convinced or worried, but accepts the gloves politely at any rate, thanking me for my consideration. She smiles at me again, amused. 

I'm a biology major so give her the Latin name of the micro-critter. She doesn't stop smiling. I tell her people die.

"OK." That's all she says, then adds, "Thanks for the warning." She's looking even more amused.

I turn to go back home and am half way to the door when it occurs to me. I've just moved into a retirement community, in Florida no less. "People die," I had said. She was no doubt thinking, "Well no shit, Sherlock." 

Now, I'm feeling like there isn't a rock big enough for me to crawl beneath.