Driving down the street I do several times a day, passing each little house to get to my own, I noticed the SUV. Occasionally, it would be parked in front of this particular house. I vaguely recall seeing a girl step out of the vehicle and approach the front steps on occasion. She didn’t live here though, I know that much. The occupant was a lean, grey haired woman. Frail with short curls. Every evening this past summer, I would see her inspecting her yard. To every passerby, she would give a smile and a half wave. Donning a floral print apron and pleated denim, she would water bright violet flowers. Those flowers, sometimes so magnificent in color, would warrant a second longer glance.
"Are those real?" I wondered a few times over those months.
That color looked like some combination of Red #3 and Blue #5, produced in a lab somewhere to dye the plastic for barbie shoes. The flowers were in fact real. A month before, I passed by this house particularly noticing a brown shriveled mass where they used to be. Disappointed, I quickly blamed this on the change of season and went about the day.
Today, the SUV had a flatbed trailer in tow. A middle aged man and the girl were lifting on to it a magenta and forest green floral print couch. A neatly rolled up rug, a set of brass lamps topped with fringed shades, and a dark oak side table were already loaded on the trailer. As quickly as I had been witness to the late morning chore of the man and the girl, I had passed the house and found myself in my own driveway. The violet woman was gone.