I wish he would start moving furniture. Since I don’t have x-ray vision, I can’t tell what’s inside cardboard boxes. But I can decide what kind of man he is based on his furniture, as one does. “I bet everything he owns is modern and black,” I tell Murphy, my golden retriever, while still staring out at the ridiculously attractive man stalking across his yard like he’s mad at it for existing at all. Which is quite sad, considering how lovely our little neighborhood is.
