I heard a thumpy sound outside as I was relaxing after my onion soup, and opened the front door to find Sam, my neighbordyke, clearing my walk of the snowstorm’s snarky coda.
Sam and Tuu live around the corner in a basement apartment probably illegally rented by a leathery guy with artisanal skills and a work shed that takes up most of his back yard. They keep Chihuahuas (Tuu is a dog groomer) and have had lively exchanges with my dipshit next-door neighbor over street parking. Months back I told them that I had no problem with their big-ass SUV parking at my curb; at least I would know who to call if I needed it moved.
In a curious dance that I have seen played out here in the very blue province of Arlington County yea many times, they referred to each other as “roommates” until the day I encountered them coming home from the Gay Pride Parade in matching rainbow T-shirts. One day this will all seem so normal that this very post will be quaint.
I’ve lived here eighteen years and for the first time, son of a bitch, I have a neighbor.
She might have noticed that I cleaned off her SUV in the last snowblast. What the heck, I was out there. Whatever. It makes me less of a misanthropic old bitch for this one night.