Denise looked across the road at me.
I was in the doorway with my tea.
She said nothing for a moment.
The officer said, “Why did you park here after already receiving a penalty for obstructing this access point?”
Denise’s mouth opened. Closed.
Nothing came out.
That was the moment. Not the first Monday with its drama and its curtains snapping open and its recovery truck. This one. The moment she understood that this was no longer about whether I had the energy or the patience or the confrontational capacity to go another round with her. There was a case number now. There were twenty-three photographs. There was a record that would simply grow each time she did it.
She could dislike me all she wanted. She could not make the paperwork feel awkward.
She moved the car.
Another penalty notice followed her to the side street where she parked it.
