Windows
There’s a U-Haul truck parked in front of the house next door when I step out on my porch to check the mail. I hear the back roll up, boyish laughter, a man’s voice saying something low and unintelligible, more laughter, another man giggling, “Rudy, stop it.”
Kids, I think as I pull the few bills and mail-order catalogues from my mailbox. They shouldn’t sell homes to the college students—they turn the places into party houses, people crawling all over the yard, cars up and down the block. That’s the last thing this neighborhood needs, you know? And why’d it have to be the house next to mine?
From inside the truck, I hear the scrape of heavy furniture, something dropped, a gasp and the same guy calling out, “Watch it! That’s authentic. Rudy, honey…no, wait—”
A loud crash and I
