My face pierces the day greater than the beams through my dusty drapes that melt endlessly against the wind.

Neighbors are mowing again - or off elsewhere working.

I see the older lady next door leaving her house. She has a broken down old man who comes out to drive occasionally.

But she walks.

She's got nice **** and I can smell alcohol on her breath at all hours of the day.

I can tell she was the type who gets loud at the party when most other girls had gone home.

I know the type - the type who's presence motivated me to drink more and think less.

Now, I'm just a sad sack peeking out my drapes at the other sad sacks peeking out their windows at me.