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Enjoy the show. Oh, you know.

Oh, you know.

Oh, you know. Oh, you know.

Oh, you know.

Oh,

Oh, Oh, Two years ago, my significant other and I found the perfect place to rent. It was a small tract of fabricated homes. The neighborhood was nice. It was quiet, which

for two college seniors wanting to get out of the noisy dorms, was heaven. Now because this was Arizona, it was prefab houses most of the folks

that lived in our neighborhood were 60 or older save a few. To our left

Sandra and David, an awesome couple in their early 60s, both retired postal workers.

They spent summers in Maine and winters here. To our right, a four-something who supposedly owned her own home business named Carol.

She looked like she perpetually was sucking on a lemon, and she was just off. At first, she would occasionally join my significant other for a smoke on the porch,

or if we barbecued with Dave and Sandy, we would invite her over.

To say that she was awkward was putting it lightly.

We suspected maybe.

She was on the spectrum or something like that.

We would be eating and she would describe how her mother died a slow agonizing death when a tumor in her throat burst or there was the time when she would describe her latest yeast infection in detail.

I kid you not. Sometimes I would work out on the porch. I had a small bench with the bar and some weights.

One day I'm lifting when I almost dropped the bar on my neck.

Leaning over was Carol. I could have snapped your neck like a twig, she mumbled.

I sat up.

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