do you have a neighbor who seems pretty well bolted down in all ways until you become accidentally privy to a loose screw?
you know, they do the neighborly things like leave bags of tomatoes from their garden at your front door.
or bring mail over that was mistakenly delivered to them.
or engage in pleasant stop and chats about the weather when paths cross as the result of daily comings and goings.
all that normal, friendly carrying on.
the kind of stuff that builds community and good faith until ...
every thursday at 2:30 pm, when she sings opera from the not so privacy of her garage, except it's no opera i ever heard, with the words all changed to tell ribald tales of wild sex, in which man parts are manhandled while in the angry bondage grip of a woman scorned, accenting each verb of titillating torture with the rhythmic snap of a well launched bullwhip.
the kind of shenanigans that lead me to accidentally hide in a thicket of thorns and bees for hours on end around the same time.
afraid to move.
afraid to breathe.
afraid to miss a note she sings from her mesmerizing aria of carnal exploits from an imagination gone deeply and completely perverse.
you know, that sort of loose screw.