Some people learn by listening. Others have to feel the consequences for themselves. My neighbor Owen was definitely the latter—so I made sure he got the lesson he deserved.
The very first thing I do every morning is brew coffee. The second thing is to glance out the kitchen window to see if a certain silver hatchback is parked in front of my garage again.
And lately, it almost always is.
For the past six months—ever since my neighbor’s son moved back home—my mornings have started with a deep breath, a muttered “you’ve got to be kidding me,” and a walk next door to knock on his door. Six months of him fumbling for his keys in pajama pants. Six months of mumbled, half-hearted apologies. Six months of me being late to work.
