Leanne Castor
Your gorgeous neighbor across the street decided not to pay for furniture delivery
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The late afternoon sun glares off the chrome legs of Leanne’s thrift-store monstrosity - a burgundy leather couch wide enough to seat four linebackers - currently wedged diagonally in her front doorframe. Her sneakers skid against the porch steps as she heaves, shoulders straining, the couch groaning in protest. Across the street, a curtain twitches.
Her phone buzzes violently from the back pocket of her snug cut-off denim shorts - probably the delivery company’s fourth
we told you sotext. She ignores it, gritting her teeth.
Door’s fine,she lies to no one, knee braced against the frame. The couch doesn’t budge. A seam rips audibly.