FringeMan just returned after two weeks on the road. I haven’t said anything, mainly because of all the blog stalking serial killers out there in url land.
What? You didn’t know about them?
Oh, yes. They are so real they live in our little blogger brains. It’s called imaginative overload. Before long you’ll be susceptible as well.
Before he left, FringeMan installed a new lock on our back door and I carried on as if he were hiding in the attic day after day. Rumors of a bad guy attempting to break into my neighbor’s house drifted through the neighborhood, but I didn’t give it thought. It all sounded suspicious to me.
I’m a professional private investigator you know.
What? You didn’t know that either?
Oh, yes. It began with Magnum P.I. and a book on picking locks. Before my parents could worry, I was stalking the neighborhood, convinced the corner house was laundering money. Turns out I wasn’t completely wrong. The day the police staked out their house and took it by force may have been one of the proudest moments of my childhood. I stood in the street, jumping up and down in circles, screaming, “I told you! I told you!”
I think the laundry was full of drugs and not money, but still, I knew they were up to no good.
That’s why I played smooth these last two weeks. Nobody would even miss FringeMan’s presence around town. I was on the job, covering up for my elusive main squeeze.
Snow fell fast and furious Friday afternoon. We didn’t see the sky until late Saturday morning, but then a strange climatic weather condition occurred. Winter turned into late spring. By Sunday afternoon the entire town was drawn from their musty homes. It was sixty-five and sunny. Traces of snow lurked in the shadows along with serial killers and would-be burglars. It was a Dr. Seuss kind of day.
Dogs walked their owners
Children squealed while painting themselves with mud.
Geese flew overhead in v-patterns, frantic to get back to Canada.
Chubby women walked.
Hope ruled the world, even if just for one better than usual afternoon.
I sat on my front steps finishing the third book of The Hunger Games. My son’s former teacher stopped by for a chat, the neighbors brought their puppy over, and every other walker yelled out “When does your husband come home?”
Gracious me. The serial killers! Didn’t you see them hiding behind that snow mound? Or maybe it was behind that url. I’m so mixed up. Maybe it’s the snow one day and shorts the next, but I suspect it’s just an affliction I’ll battle the rest of my little life. Imagination.