Читать книгу Wherever the Wind Blows Me... - Laurie Jr. Murphy - Страница 4

I am not pleased. It appears that someone has purchased the little house that sits next door to where I live. The house that I wanted to buy. I haven’t seen them yet, but there is action going on. A car in the driveway, a light over the front door. Mowed grass. It has been empty for so long, I just assumed it would always be there, waiting for me.

In truth, I couldn’t have bought it. I know that. Everyone I ever told of my intentions knew that. Still, it could have happened. People win stuff. I could have won something, money or something. Then I could have made a serious offer. Then I could maybe, someday, buy that house.

I wonder who they are. Most likely pretentious. This is a pretentious neighborhood. Maybe young, a nosey woman who gossips too much. A man who lifts weights and drinks before five. The house is small. Maybe an older couple, retired. A couple who hates noise, and children. And dogs.

From the beginning, there was something about the little house. It just sits there, unassuming. Expecting nothing. Proud, but neglected. It calls to me when I walk in the cul-de-sac. Notice me, it yearns. I do, I say. I think you’re beautiful. It blushes with embarrassment, and stands a little taller.

And now this. Strangers, coming to defile my house. Coming with their negativity and tensions, their emotional baggage and material worthlessness. I will put a curse on the house, I think. I know absolutely nothing about curses, but still, I close my eyes and wish really hard that they will go away. But when I open my eyes, their car is still there.

It doesn’t matter who they are, I think. They can be nice, or mean, friendly or hostile. They can be young or old, healthy or sickly. Regardless of their life circumstances, they can keep their stories to themselves. I am not interested in hearing about places they’ve traveled or hobbies they’ve mastered. I don’t much care about people they have met along the way. I don’t like them.