Three months later
Three months laterBe careful about the f*******n. It’ll get you every time. Maybe I could get used to this place, I think, as I look out the window at the front of the house, across the street, where someone is mowing a lawn. A service person. Few people around here know much about manual labor.
In that way, it’s not so different than where I came from. Somehow, although I haven’t completely put my finger on exactly how, things are very different. The facades are tasteful, the lawns tidy and expansive. Here, one-or two-acre lots frame smaller, neat houses, a quaint mix of modern and old-fashioned. Sophisticated, built to look like old money, even if that’s not what occupies them. To my right, there are children playing in the street. There’s no absence of people. Not l
