He was in the backyard digging a small hole at the foot of the pine, to bury his son’s goldfish, when he noticed the neighbour standing on the deck, staring at him. She was all cocked hips and unruly hair, wearing an oversized tank top and rolling a cigarette. He placed the cardboard box in the hole and filled it with dirt.
“Not much of a gardener,” she said, suddenly behind him.
He turned, his face creased in curiosity.
She inhaled, pushing her chest out, letting him notice she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Our fish died.”
“You must be heartbroken.”