Life certainly has its ups and downs as everyone can attest to. It just feels like my life has had more downs than ups over the past few years. For instance, my parents had been killed in an auto accident three years ago when I was twenty-three. A semi-truck had veered into their lane when the overworked driver fell asleep at the wheel hitting my parent’s car head-on. The doctors assured me that they had died instantly, which was a blessing I guess. There was an upside however, if I wanted to think of it that way. I inherited the house that I grew up in. It is a modest three bedroom located in a very quiet neighborhood.
One year ago I had gotten married to Cynthia Palmer, my high school sweetheart. That lasted a whole five months. Right up till the time I came home early from work and found her lying flat on her stomach with Adam Brooks’ dick firmly pushed up her asshole. Something she never allowed me to do I might add. I found out later that they had been seeing each other long before her and I started dating. Why she had married me remains a mystery, but I suspect that she had planned to divorce me to get her hands on the house. Since I had caught her being bung holed though, she hadn’t contested anything in the divorce settlement.
It was nearly 6pm by the time I arrived home from my construction job; I had stopped by the market to pick up some much needed supplies. Mainly the supplies consisted of beer and dinners that I could just put in the microwave. I can cook, but choose not to. After putting everything away I grabbed one of the beers and went to the deck my father and I had built onto the back of the house. As was my daily habit, I sat in the ratty armchair I had rescued from a yard sale, popped the top on the beer and lit the one cigarette a day I allowed myself. I leaned back in the chair and let the cool spring evening caress me gently.
“Those things will kill you, Bradley,” my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, scolded me.
“Not before I make an honest woman out of you,” I jokingly replied.
Mrs. Henderson has called me Bradley since I was sixteen and doing her yard work. I prefer Brad, but would never dream of correcting her. I started helping her with the yard after her husband Bill, a policeman, had been shot breaking up a domestic dispute ten years ago. Bill had been a great guy and I know his death had torn her up. When I first asked if I could help with the upkeep of the yard, a chore Bill always took care of, it must have touched her. Since then we have remained good friends and neighbors.
I stood and strolled over to the row of bushes that acted as a fence between our properties. Standing on the other side Mrs. Henderson smiled warmly at me as she gazed up and down my six-foot frame. Openly admiring my physique was something I have noticed her doing more of lately. Mostly when she didn’t think I was aware of it, but I didn’t mind, since I was doing the same to her.
Standing around five-nine she was a striking woman in her mid-fifties. Light brown wavy hair down to her shoulders framed a slim face with green eyes, a small upturned nose and full soft lips. Even with a baggy sweatshirt on I could tell her breast were rather large for her slender frame. Her shapely legs poking from the bottom of her cut-off denim shorts seemed to go on for miles.
“How are you doing Mrs. Henderson,” I asked.
“Just fine thank you. Got another one of those beers, Bradley?”
“You know I always have one for you,” I laughed.
I watched her struggle through the waist high bushes, and then she followed me to the deck and sat on the lounge chair next to my chair. I returned with two beers from the fridge, handed one to her, and got comfortable in my ratty armchair. We sipped our beers in silence listening to the sounds of the approaching night. The two of us sitting peacefully on my deck had become a ritual we shared two or three times a week since my parents had died. I actually found myself looking forward to these times. Mrs. Henderson, I never called her anything else, was good company and I enjoyed her visits even when we didn’t talk much.