Slippers.
No attempt whatsoever to hide.
She walked directly to my bins.
Dropped the bags.
Dusted off her hands.
Then turned around.
“Marlene!”
She looked back.
“Morning, Claire.”
I stepped outside in my robe.
“Those yours?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“Most of them.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“The kids make an unbelievable amount of trash.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She looked confused.
“Then what?”
“Why is your unbelievable amount of trash beside my house?”
Marlene smiled.
“I canceled our garbage pickup.”
I THOUGHT I HAD MISHEARD HER
“You canceled it?”
“It’s ridiculously expensive.”
“But you still generate garbage.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re putting it here.”
She smiled like I was struggling with basic arithmetic.
“You already have a truck coming.”
“Because I pay for one.”
“Exactly.”
She lifted her shoulders.
“Why should both households pay?”
I stared at her.
For several seconds—
I genuinely had no response.
“Marlene, that is not how services work.”
“Oh, please.”
She held up one perfectly manicured hand.
“I’d rather spend that money on another manicure than something I don’t need.”
I looked at the pale-pink nails.
Then at the growing pile beside my lawn.
“You obviously need garbage pickup.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“You need garbage pickup.”
Then:
