Denise came running outside in slippers and a dressing gown.
“What are you doing?”
The recovery driver didn’t even look surprised.
“Morning.”
“Take that off my car!”
The enforcement officer stepped forward.
“Is this your vehicle?”
“Obviously it’s my vehicle!”
“Could I see some identification, please?”
Denise looked across the street.
At me.
I was standing in my kitchen doorway holding my coffee.
Her face changed.
“You.”
I took a sip.
“Morning.”
“You called them?”
“Yes.”
She marched toward my house.
The officer stopped her.
“Madam, I need you to stay here.”
“She’s doing this because of some stupid argument!”
I called back, “Twenty-two stupid arguments, actually.”
Denise looked like she wanted to throw something.
“You could have knocked!”
I nearly laughed.
“I did.”
“You could have knocked this morning!”
“At half past five?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“So I could move it!”
I stared at her.
That was the first time in weeks she’d admitted that moving it was, in fact, possible.
