The Devil's Match

Chapter 7: Mike

I woke up at 6 am with the grinding, obnoxious loud whirring of a lawnmower from my neighbor's yard. Whirr. A guttural whine rose from my throat, sounding like a beached whale, and in an instant the nausea from my drinking last night hit me. I tried to cover my ears with both my hands, but to no avail. The incessant grind and whirr of the machine pierced through my poor defenses and made me curse like a sailor. I had enough. I stood up with haste and all the righteous anger that a hungover person should have, which proved to be a bad idea because I almost puked my guts out from the sudden movements. It took me a couple of seconds to center my body and stop my world from spinning before I even realized the fact that I was not in my bedroom. I was in my living room. Which only meant one thing: I got hammered last night.

From the background, the sound of the lawnmower seemed to grow louder and louder, making the veins on my temple pop up.

There was someone mowing their fucking yard at six in the morning.

I burst through my front door, not caring that I was still in last night's clothing. My feet carried me towards my other neighbor's house and I marched up straight at Tilda, my hipster spinster neighbor who was mowing her lawn without a care in the world.

Suppose you could say that Tilda was a stalky woman—very stiff regarding the way she conservatively dressed and spoke. Clear features. A distinct little mole on the underside of her left eye. Then there was this ever-present blank, almost soulless smile she used all the time. Often at me. It never failed to make me uncomfortable.

"Good morning, Lily. You had a rough night."

She had a mop of frizzy blonde curls, a pale complexion. She had fluttery gestures and expressions—frowns, smiles, pouts—each one following the other so closely that it looked like her face was in constant motion. The sentence she uttered, in and of itself, didn't mean more than what it should have, but the middle-aged woman's scorn and judging gaze spoke volumes which irritated me further.

"Out of all the times in the day, Tilda, you choose dawn to mow your fucking yard. Couldn't you have fucking mowed your lawn at noon?"

The older woman had the audacity to appear offended, giving me a look of absolute innocence. "I don't appreciate that kind of language, young lady—not so early in this beautiful morning with all this glorious sunshine!"

I made a sound that could not be described in the English language.

"It's not so beautiful and great when you wake half the neighborhood with that god-awful noise! And Jesus Christ! How old is that thing?" I pointed to her raggedy, clunking mess of a machine she called a lawnmower which, by the way, she hadn't bothered to turn off since I started talking to her.

"I'm trying to be as zero waste as possible to lessen my carbon footprint in this world. If this old thing still works, it's fine with me. You should try caring about the world sometime too. I see your mountain of trash every week. Sad, just sad."

I was about ready to throw hands when brawny arms held me back and a clear voice spoke from behind me.

"Hello, Tilda. You're lovely today, as usual," Greg spoke up and smiled at the older woman, charming her with his good looks. He was still in his nightwear: old sweatpants and a white wife-beater which clung to his torso. Snug, molding his solidness.

"Young man, you are such a delight to talk to. Such a contrast to this—" Tilda looked at me with a scorn. "—woman dressed so scant."

On my property, she forgot to include that. I was on my own fucking property.

"Forgive my friend here. She has a bit of a problem with sounds. A little loopy, if you know what I mean. So could I ask you a huge favor to start the landscaping a little later this afternoon?" Greg plastered a roguish grin on his face.