#32 of 100 Stories
Stopping to Smell the Roses, Not to Stir the Fertilizer
Concerns are up
I fly up the driveway and into the garage at warp speed, not because I need to, but because I do not wish to entertain my nearest neighbor, Mrs. Florine Greene.
Despite the effort, she spots me trying to slither out of the driver’s seat, hustles to the edge of the sidewalk, and trills, “Jocelyn,” above the slam of my car door.
“Hi Mrs. Greene, how are you this evening?” I reply while strolling in deference, down the slope of the driveway.
“Your hair looks nice,” she compliments after placing her hands on her broad hips.
“Thank you,” I smile, before adding, “How is Mr. Greene?”
“Oh… you know… he is the onery rascal he has always been. And he wants to know if you intend to join the HOA Board now that you are retiring,” she fibs.
My right foot pivots outward before my left-hand flies up and punctuates, “Mr. Greene isn’t even on the HOA Board,” with my eyebrows matted into a question mark.
Mrs. Green releases a deep, “Hrumph,” and I swallow through the passing beat.
“Mmm hmm… isn’t that just the devil… busy bossing all around?” she finally remarks.
I fan an unknown insect away and watch Mrs. Greene jiggle in the opposite direction, careful to avoid falling into one of the many overgrown rose bushes guarding the perimeter of her yard.
“Mrs. Green, seriously… I haven’t given joining anything much consideration. I haven’t had time… tomorrow is my first full day of retirement,” I finally reply.
“Child… I thought you retired last year,” she jazzes with her eyes blooming into full moons.
I bat my lashes before correcting with, “No, ma’am,” and releasing a chuckle.
“No? Lord… who am I thinking of? I must have you confused with someone else,” she babbles.
I broaden my smile, forcing my mandible to contort until the underlying muscles sting.
A series of beats and a rusted-out sedan pass before I end with, “It was good seeing you Mrs. Greene, and by the way, your roses look great.”
“It was good seeing you,” she begins after I toss my hand meekly to deliver a sad rendition of a royal wave, turn, and walk away.