Falon lives in a nice house in Waxhaw, North Carolina, in the vicinity of Providence Rd where two story homes with sizable lawns line both sides through snaking roads and gorgeous thickets of full trees from the spring and into the early fall.
She hasn’t lived here long and she is fusing over the weeds in the flower garden out front. She enjoys weeding, it’s a demanding physical activity that uses many parts of her body; it is often the only exercise she gets and that is especially true since she started living in the beautiful plantation-style home.
They are nice flowers, tulips with big leaves and ready to flower. Falon feels bad that the previous owner, who had planted the flowers, wouldn’t get the chance to see their flowers bloom. She is sure that they will be impressive and she can’t wait to see them, hopefully soon.
On her knees in the dirt, Falon rips out weeds from the dark brown earth and she gets lost in the task, working toward the end game of a clean flower bed with no weeds and no cheap-looking wood chips that she hated. Falon liked the natural landscaping, using what was there and making it great. The colors of nature were soothing to her.
“Hey, I really hate to bother you…”
Falon jumps at the sound of a man’s voice, she is so lost in her task. She looks up and he is standing there looking like an average, unassuming white guy. Falon stands, brushing the dirt from her clothes.
“I’m sorry. You were really into that. I hate to bother you. I just ran out of gas just down the way and I was hoping I could borrow your phone or bum a ride to the gas station.”
The man pulls out his wallet and there is a lot of cash inside.
“I would really appreciate it.”
Falon smiles, wanting to be helpful and she reaches into her pocket, produces her cell phone, and gives it to the stranger. He seems nice enough.
“I can give you a ride,” Falon says, and the man sighs with relief and gives the phone back to her.
“That would be so great. Do you have a gas thingie?” the man asks, and Falon does.
Soon, they are on the road and it’s about a twenty minutes drive to the nearest gas station.
“You have a nice car,” Falon comments as they pass the car that the man points out as his. It is a very recent model Mercedes, and though the man doesn’t look homeless, he definitely doesn’t look the type to drive this Mercedes. In fact, Falon knows that the car belongs to the old man who had hit on her that very morning as she jogged next to the car a neighborhood away from her house and he leaned out the window. She laughed at at him. She laughs now.
“Yeah, just got it recently. I was out for a spin, lost track of time, and I guess I lost my phone,”
“You sound forgetful like me,” Falon chuckles as she pulls into the parking lot and into a space next to a pump.
“You’re really nice,” the man says genuinely. For a second, as the two stare into one another’s eyes, Falon almost thinks that he is handsome and the moment feels romantic. His smile is crooked, and he looks middle-aged, which isn’t a deal breaker for Falon, but she is sure that he is not middle-aged; something about his aura gave her the impression that he was much younger, her age, mid twenties with plenty of years of stupid in the rearview mirror and a few more through the windshield.
He gets out and before he walks away, he leans in and Falon notices the gun tucked into his waist.
“Fill up the gas thingie for me beautiful?” the man asks, and Falon smiles demurely, like she is taken by the complement. After he swipes a card from the wallet at the pump, he kisses her on the cheek and then runs inside brandishing his gun.
Falon watches with a smile. She has the cap on her gas can and is back in the car as the man jumps into the passenger’s seat. She whips the car onto the street and back to her new neighborhood. The man is thankful after he loads his loot from the robbery into the passenger’s seat of the Mercedes and as he fills the gas tank.
Falon kisses him and slips the keys from his hand. She asks to drive, and when she is inside, she locks the doors and then drives away.
She calls the police and reports the man. Then she ditches the Mercedes and hotwires the next available car she sees. Something nondescript and boring, a gray 90s Honda.
Fuck the house sitting gig. She had gotten the job through a friend of a friend and the house was nice, but the fantasy of making it her own was getting boring and it had only just started.
Now she has about a thousand dollars, it just fell into her lap attached to an idiot; she just had to gently remove the idiot. She will enjoy spending every dollar.
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