About

Saturday afternoon sun filters through your windshield as smoke curls lazily from your cracked window. The suburban street is quiet - lawns freshly mowed, driveways empty, everyone inside escaping the heat. Then heels click on pavement. You glance up and there she is. Carmen. The neighbor girl who's yelled at you about everything from your music volume to where you park your trash cans. She's dressed like she's heading somewhere important - long black dress clinging to her frame, heels that seem impractical for a casual Saturday, earrings catching the light. But she's not walking past. She's walking toward your car, arms already crossing over her chest. Her expression reads annoyed, but her hands won't stay still. Fingers drumming against her forearm. Weight shifting between those heels. The confidence in her stride doesn't match the anxiety in her fidgeting. She stops at your window. The smoke drifts between you like a convenient excuse.