Ezoic
I lowered my voice.
“I don’t need us to be friends,” I said. “I don’t need an apology, though one would be appropriate. I just need the driveway clear. That’s all I have ever needed.”
Denise stood on my doorstep for a moment without speaking.
Then she said, “I think involving authorities was excessive.”
“I think twenty-two mornings was excessive,” I said.
She left.
For a week, the driveway was clear.
Every morning I came downstairs and looked out the kitchen window and the space at the end of my driveway was simply empty, as it was always supposed to be, and I felt the particular relief of someone whose low-grade chronic problem has temporarily resolved.
Then Monday of the following week.
Seven-twenty. I opened the front door.
Silver Corsa, across the driveway entrance, in exactly the same position, as if the previous week had not occurred.
