“Look at you,” a woman’s voice says, “you can’t even put your shoes on!”
A door slams across the lawn.
“And don’t you dare come back ’til dark!”
Through the window I see the lady who regularly rides her pink-and-purple children’s bike around the parking lot. She’s shuffling toward the pool leaving splotches of steaming grey rising from the afternoon pavement, slowly twisting the yellow inner-tube around her waist.
“Don’t come back, now, or I’ll beat the shit out of you,” the woman’s voice says, speaking lowly through the window screen.
Head down, the lady disappears around the corner.
Hours later she’s back and asks for a towel, peaking timidly through the cracked door of the apartment, limp hair dripping across her face.
“You left with a towel, what happened to it?” the woman asks.
Not waiting for an answer she goes on, “You have no business being inside this house dripping all over the carpet — Get out!”
The lady stands still.
“Now!” the woman says. “And don’t you dare come back without that towel.”
I pace across the living room. The woman’s voice ringing within my rage. At her. At myself for doing nothing.
Our lives on display as the summer sun opens our windows.