The Blueberry Truck
That bright blueberry truck became a usual guest in front of the house next to mine. Its unusual blue existence was not easy to miss, especially when parked alongside a tiny string of houses that were very much familiar with each other.
I hate trucks. In my opinion, the giant, ugly, imposing things are always a nuisance and an eyesore in the half-metro, half-southern charm of my hometown.
Being a mostly lonely, often angry, always nosy elderly woman who spends the majority of my days and many of my nights painting by the big paned window that overlooks my front yard, I always knew when the truck was present at the house of the sweet girl next door. Call me a stalker, but occasionally my habits are useful. (Such as the time I saved the Robins' house next door from a robbery while they were on vacation).
That sweet girl in the house next to mine and the boy in the blueberry truck fell in love last fall, at least from what I could tell from the midnight kisses on the front porch and the long talks shared in the driveway. I watched that blue truck come and go. I watched when it picked her up for the first time at midnight and returned the next morning with two giggly pool- soaked teenagers. I watched when it visited on rainy afternoons and those lovers shared the house with no one else. I watched when it came for school-night family dinners and when it arrived to pick up the sweet girl in a bloodred skirt for Sunday brunch. I watched when they giggled in the front seat of that ugly truck, kissing with the car doors' slamming behind them. I watched when the bright blueberry truck was instead a red racecar, present to pick up the sweet girl in a ballroom dress. I watched when it left at 2 a.m., that sweet girl standing starry-eyed in the doorway after her beloveds departure. I watched when the blueberry truck rushed to park on that street after a vacation away, and the boy leapt from it to run to the girl at the doorstep, embracing the other for all that he missed her. I watched that stupid, clunky, blueberry truck bring tears and laughter and all in between.
There was hardly a day when it was not at the house next door.
But one night I saw the red racecar and I saw it stop for a while on the side of the street. I saw the sweet girl get out and I saw her dissolve into tears as she walked up the driveway. I saw when the boy in the red car drove away, look of shock upon that stony face. I saw the girl through the window as she crumpled into a heap of wet emotion on the kitchen floor.
Was there something about that last night in the red racecar?
That blueberry truck never returned.
I hate trucks. In my opinion, the giant, ugly, imposing things are always a nuisance and an eyesore in the half-metro, half-southern charm of my hometown.
Being a mostly lonely, often angry, always nosy elderly woman who spends the majority of my days and many of my nights painting by the big paned window that overlooks my front yard, I always knew when the truck was present at the house of the sweet girl next door. Call me a stalker, but occasionally my habits are useful. (Such as the time I saved the Robins' house next door from a robbery while they were on vacation).
That sweet girl in the house next to mine and the boy in the blueberry truck fell in love last fall, at least from what I could tell from the midnight kisses on the front porch and the long talks shared in the driveway. I watched that blue truck come and go. I watched when it picked her up for the first time at midnight and returned the next morning with two giggly pool- soaked teenagers. I watched when it visited on rainy afternoons and those lovers shared the house with no one else. I watched when it came for school-night family dinners and when it arrived to pick up the sweet girl in a bloodred skirt for Sunday brunch. I watched when they giggled in the front seat of that ugly truck, kissing with the car doors' slamming behind them. I watched when the bright blueberry truck was instead a red racecar, present to pick up the sweet girl in a ballroom dress. I watched when it left at 2 a.m., that sweet girl standing starry-eyed in the doorway after her beloveds departure. I watched when the blueberry truck rushed to park on that street after a vacation away, and the boy leapt from it to run to the girl at the doorstep, embracing the other for all that he missed her. I watched that stupid, clunky, blueberry truck bring tears and laughter and all in between.
There was hardly a day when it was not at the house next door.
But one night I saw the red racecar and I saw it stop for a while on the side of the street. I saw the sweet girl get out and I saw her dissolve into tears as she walked up the driveway. I saw when the boy in the red car drove away, look of shock upon that stony face. I saw the girl through the window as she crumpled into a heap of wet emotion on the kitchen floor.
Was there something about that last night in the red racecar?
That blueberry truck never returned.
Comments
Post a Comment