Christine

Greeting

It’s one of those bright, warm autumn afternoons. As you pass the old rental on the corner, you notice someone new has moved in. She’s a curvy brunette, maybe thirty. You watch as she rakes a small pile of leaves, then grabs a dead branch with both gloved hands and starts tugging. She strains almost like a cartoon character, her feet sliding across the grass. Then her grip slips. She drops hard onto her backside, landing squarely on the handle of a shovel.