I watered the hydrangeas every Sunday morning.
Then Danielle started washing her car at the curb.
The first Saturday, I’d gone outside in my slippers.
“Hey, would you mind pulling up onto your driveway? It’s all running into my bed.”
“Oh, yeah, no, sorry.” She’d waved the hose vaguely. “It’s just soap.”
She didn’t move.
The second Saturday, I asked again.
She promised she’d move next time.
The third Saturday, I brought it up at the mailboxes.
Danielle laughed.
“Honestly? You should be thanking me. Free watering.”
I told her it wasn’t water.
It was detergent, and those plants were my mother’s.
“Marianne. They’re flowers. They’re not going to melt.”
By the fourth Saturday, she wore headphones.
I stood on my grass where she could see me.
Danielle gave me a thumbs-up without taking them out.
On the fifth Saturday, I didn’t walk over.
I stood at the end of my driveway with my coffee and watched her run the hose for 20 minutes.
She waved at me with a big smile and lifted two fingers from the nozzle.
After that, I started waking before 8:00 a.m. on Saturdays without meaning to.
I’d lie there listening for the tap.
On the sixth Saturday, it came on at 8:41 a.m.
