Once, from my window opposite his, I see clutter everywhere. I joke about mine. He smiles.
It’s his shadow I usually see, illuminated behind drapes. I have shutters, closed.
Then I stop seeing Robert’s shadow, yet every night a light, on and off. Probably a timer. Is he traveling?
Why aren’t I?
The light goes dark.
A Got Junk? truck arrives to haul away the shadow’s life.
Robert had left to die. He was 55.
Will my life get hauled away by a Got Junk? truck? I wonder.