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Through the Warps and Ripples of Antique Glass
Life outside the window in a quiet, Midwestern town
Outside my window there’s a one way street. At least once a day a car misses the sign and heads straight into oncoming traffic. The error elicits a cacophony of honking horns and screeching tires. I always stop working at the sound and turn to observe. I haven’t seen any crashes yet, but I remain hopeful.
My next door neighbor has a tiny little dog with a bladder the size of a pea. She walks her dog nine times a day always wearing the same windbreaker. She never zips the jacket up no matter if it’s snowing, raining, ten below zero, or ninety degrees and humid. The windbreaker billows around her like Biblical robes. She’s got a huge yard, but she always trots her dog up to my little patch of grass. He sniffs delicately before picking his spot.
Across the street is a wine bar. They’ve continued clandestine operations throughout the quarantine. People park surreptitiously around the corner and sneak over to the front door glancing around in terror. You can tell they are otherwise honest people because they’re so terrible at not drawing attention to themselves.
Further down the road is an assisted living facility. At least once a week an ambulance is called to render aid to one of the residents. At the sound…