July 1, 2006
It's been a year they see me stumble out of my car, slam the door with a balanced leg. To the left there's a shirtless blubbery man with stretched tattoos. As I drop purse and bags in my hunt for keys, I pretend not to see the two single guys who scored some decent looking girlfriends. They mow the lawns, walk their dogs, and sweep their back porch. Since the neighborhood break-ins started, I've broken ice with Fatty. Nice man. I've come close to talking to the guys. They used to knock on my door and invite me to clubs.