Fuzzy Navel [antikvár]

KORKIt's quiet in the suburbs. The only sound is from the cab that has dropped me off, making a U-turn at the dead end, then heading back down the quiet, winding road. Its taillights quickly disappear, swallowed up by the multitude of trees.I walk up the driveway and look at the house. It's a ranch, laid out in the shape of an L, occupying half an acre of green lawn speckled with fallen leaves. There's a double-car garage, the door closed. I see Mom through the front bay window. She's sitting in a rocking chair and reading a bookhow much more stereotypical elderly can you get? I check the front door, and as expected it is locked.I walk around the side of the house, running my hand along the brown brick, passing windows that should probably be washed. This is a big departure from the Chicago apartment. A lot more space. A lot more privacy. I've discovered that privacy is important. No neighbors for more than a quarter mile is a good thing. With all of the tree coverage, it's like being in the middle of the woods, rather than only five miles away from O'Hare Airport.I stop at the back porcha slab of concrete with the obligatory lawn chairs, a wrought iron sun table, and a verandaand I close my eyes, breathing in the cool autumn air. Somewhere, someone is burning