It was six-twenty-eight in the morning. The street was quiet. The sky had gone from black to a flat pale grey.
Ezoic
At six-thirty-one, the truck operator began working near the front wheels.
At six-thirty-three, Denise’s bedroom light came on.
I actually glanced at the clock on the microwave when it happened. I don’t know why that detail still makes me smile. The sequence of it, the light appearing at exactly the right moment, the universe demonstrating a rare and satisfying sense of timing.
The curtains snapped open.
Three seconds of stillness.
The curtains snapped shut again.
Ten seconds later, Denise’s front door opened and she came out in slippers and a dressing gown, moving at the speed of someone who has realized something has already gone wrong and is hoping to arrive in time to prevent it from going further wrong.
“What are you doing?” she said.
The recovery driver glanced up. “Morning.”
“Take that off my car!”
The enforcement officer stepped forward. “Is this your vehicle, madam?”
“Obviously it’s my vehicle!”
“Can I see some identification, please?”
She looked across the street then.
At me.
Standing in my kitchen doorway in yesterday’s clothes with a mug of tea.
Her face went through several things in rapid succession.
“You,” she said.
“Morning,” I said.
“You called them?”
“Yes.”
She started toward my house. The enforcement officer stepped into her path, not physically blocking her but positioning himself in the way that makes it clear that engagement with him is the appropriate next step.
Ezoic
“Madam, I need you to stay here for a moment.”
“She’s doing this because of some stupid argument!”
“Twenty-two stupid arguments, actually,” I called back.
Denise looked like she had bitten into something. “You could have knocked!”
I raised my eyebrows. “I did.”
