Postcards from the Patio

Just a quick update from my patio at about 6:00 in the evening.

W.F.K. is making his rounds. He's passed by twice, sporting a hard to miss white shirt with light, bright blue stripes (fashion note for whatever parents (assuming there is one, as I still have seen no evidence) buys his clothes - stripes are not thinning on the less-than-svelte), and this last round he's appeared with a stick (I'm trying to figure out if he picks up a stick randomly or if he has it timed out to a certain rotation around the complex) that he's lazily swinging at plants as he passes.

College Girl With Issues is home, as is, clearly, her boyfriend. I know this because they have the windows all wide open and are partaking in very loud, moany carnal knowledge for all to hear. Which, I assume, all are, as it's six in the evening and other neighbors are getting home, walking by my patio with their just-retrieved mail from their boxes on their way to their apartments. Haven't noticed if anyone's actually looked up at CGWI's window yet. Oh, and along with overly-dramatic love sounds is the occasional and seemingly perturbed barking of the puppy that she has up there - even though pets aren't allowed in the complex. She lives on the edge, that girl. It's moments like this that I wish she'd come down and complain about my cigar smoke creeping into her open window. I wouldn't say anything back to her, wouldn't lodge my own counter-complaints about the gunfire and explosions from the movie they were watching, blaring out their open window last night at 3:00am while I was out here trying to write (who leaves their windows open when it's 43 degrees outside? In California, at least), or the fighting spells that I've come to refer to as White Trash Theater, or the high-volume cell phone calls she makes walking around the complex in the darkest hours of the night. No, I wish she would do so so I could do just like the kid who played the younger Forrest Gump in the movie, in the scene where the school principal is leaving the Gump house after getting his "bribe" from Forrest's mama, still pulling up his suspenders as he's stepping out. I'd just like to let her finish saying her piece, then turn my head toward her, stare blankly at her, and start precisely miming her own sex sounds at her.

"Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!"

I think that'd be funnier.

Ah, they seemed to have now finished with the only glue that holds their sad, co-dependent relationship together, so I shall return to my work. That is, unless Upstairs Opens His Windows Guy decides 63 degrees warrants sliding open his patio door and having issues with my rising stogie smoke again. Wouldn't want him having to complain to No Social Skills Drunk Landlady on me.