Summary: There’s this lady in my neighborhood. She started out pleasant enough, but I’ve since found her to be judgmental, fickle, overbearing, pushy and loud. I’m not talking about me just yet. I’m talking about Sharon, the red-headed sixty-something who chain smokes, suns her wig outdoors, and has a country twang that could hail from just about any notch on the Bible belt. Sharon is the eyes and nose of our neighborhood, and she has confirmed that she’s aware of what I’m doing, how I’m doing, where I’m doing it, and who I’m doing it with. My second floor bedroom window opens across the parking lot and faces her apartment. Sharon lives right across from me, which means I shouldn’t have been surprised in August when she responded to an innocent indoor gardening question by commenting on how much I left my windows open and the rate at which I came and went in my cute little car that I bet must have cost a right pretty penny. Now what is it you do again, sweetheart? One day I stopped in to her place because she wanted to give me a houseplant. Sharon and I share a love of plants, and when she offered to give me one, I was happy to accept. When she handed me the old jelly jar with the cutting in it, I noticed the half empty vodka bottles on the counter. They were party-sized and suddenly seemed to explain everything: why she talked a little loud sometimes and didn’t seem to be aware of it; why she set her bright red wig outside on her ‘beauty stand’ whenever the weather was good; why she couldn’t ever seem to hold the thread of a full conversation. There was that time I invited her over to diagnose my sick ficus tree. I’d been struggling with it—clipping, repotting relocating it—trying every remedy I could think of, and if anybody knew how to help, she was the one. Like me, Sharon had dozens of plants in her apartment and as many crowding the patio table where she kept her wig and cigarettes. It was probably four days out of seven that I’d seen her out front spraying her hanging plants, careful not to douse the burning end of her smoke. Sharon came over and examined my ailing plant with the attention of a doting mother over a feverish child. She suggested I follow her lead and fill a bottle with soapy water and spray the leaves. That’ll kill any of them little f$#%t bugs on ’em, darlin. I froze in disbelief at what I’d heard and asked her to repeat herself. Instead of referring to the pests by their name, mealy bugs, Sharon used a gay slur and didn’t waste any time repeating it. I shot her a look that missed its mark and rolled across the floor like an empty can. Oh, she said, waving me off, my daughter tells me I all the time, she says, ‘Mama you shouldn’t be calling them bugs that,’” Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “I know, but that’s just what I always called em.” I didn’t challenge Sharon on her language because I knew there was a whole lot more where that came from, and all I wanted was plant advice. I turned toward the door, signaling a close to our visit, but Sharon turned toward me and asked if I was single. I told her I was. So you’re in the market, sweetheart? she quizzed. I nodded, adding that I hadn’t actively been seeking anybody but, yes, I’m available. Sharon looked me over, no doubt sizing up my suitability for potential matches. I knew that look. She leaned in, placed her hand on my forearm and pressed, …. for a maay-an? Yes I said. Have you met Phil? According to Sharon, Phil was more horizontal than vertical if you don’t mind fat. But he owned his own house even if he’d been stuck with it because he never found a buyer. I’ve seen him up in his window just playing that guitar for hours. He never goes anywhere. I’m going to introduce you. I didn’t see much of her after that, and I can’t say I minded. Then one day Sharon found herself a man of her own. He was barrel-chested, smoked at least as much as she did and didn’t say much. We’ll call him Dick. By the time Dick had come around,
