Across the street, two doors over

About a year ago, as I was carrying boxes from the U-Haul to our garage, I was excited to see a neighbor roll down her driveway and pedal toward the city on her bike. I imagined that she was a staunch proponent of responsible transportation, a locavore, a reader, a purchaser of baguettes. After a few days in the new house, I realized the cycling neighbor had a few female roommates who spent a whole lot of time on their porch. Sometimes they’d be smoking, sometimes they’d just be talking, sometimes they’d still be out there when I went to bed. As I sat on my porch they were far enough away to where I didn’t feel like we were watching each other, but I could always hear the muddled buzz of their activity; It leant a sense of vibrance and comfort to the dark cul-de-sac. It wasn’t until we’d been settled for 6 months that I found out it was a half-way house. After the house painter told me, I admitted that I should have been more curious about why 4 or 5 middle-aged women lived together like that. I also realized that the bike rider pedaled by every day because she had lost her driver’s license, not because she subscribed to any of my idealistic suppositions. No matter. Then, about two months ago they had to move out because the owner of the house decided to sell it. When I sit on the porch nowadays I feel like I’m hanging out on an abandoned movie set.