We’re cooking out tonight. Why don’t you join us?

When I come home from work, Sheila is yakking with the neighbor.

NEIGHBORS BY DAVID STILLWAGON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 119

Every day when I come home from work, Sheila is yakking with the neighbor, her leaning over the hedge and him standing with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.

He must be fucking her. Sheila’s no beauty queen, but I can tell he likes her.

For someone in his 60s, Ed’s in pretty good shape. He must exercise. He’s skinny, and I know he goes to a tanning salon. He waves to me to come over. I wave back and head into the house.

Sheila comes in and slams the door. “Well, Harry, that was rude! Ed just wanted to say hello.”

“I waved. That’s enough. What’s for dinner?”

She storms off to the kitchen, slamming drawers. “We are going to cook out, and Ed is coming to join us. Go start the grill.”

I want peace after work, not small talk. “Why don’t you and Ed cook out, and I’ll get a sandwich somewhere?”

Sheila pounds her fist on the counter and stares at me with her tiny eyes, her jaw frozen like she just had a stroke. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you? You are a heartless bastard. Why are we still married?”

Well, she has me there. A divorce would be expensive for me. She socked a lot of money away when her parents died, and it’s all in her name. “All right, calm down, I’ll get the grill going.”

I put the steaks on the grill and hear Sheila talking to someone in the kitchen. It must be Ed. She sounds bubbly. I watch the grill so I don’t have to look at him.

Ed’s hand slaps me on the back. “That smells great, Harry. Do you marinate them in anything?”

“No.”

“Sheila tells me you are thinking about retiring. You’ll love it.”

Sheila tells this shmoo I’m retiring? If I retired, I’d be home all day with Sheila. No, I’ll work till I drop dead.

Sheila hands Ed one of my beers. He twists the cap off with his fingers.

“Come on inside, Ed, and sit in the kitchen,” Sheila says.