Alex watched his new neighbor storm out of her house that morning. An angry, bitter woman, he thought. I’d hate to be her.
He closed the curtain and relished the calm of his empty house.
Come evening, his neighbor’s car returned. She looked bone weary, but that was before the door swung open and children poured out. Her husband kissed her cheek.
The curtain fell from Alex’s fingers as phantom sounds filled his ears—his own door; his own children.
She wasn’t angry or bitter, his memory told him. Only tired.
It wouldn’t be so bad to be her, he thought.