Over the hill, I heard happy children singing through a round of "Rocky Top;" their voices part of a chorus with a handful of drunks. Every light in that house was on and in the dark it glowed like some redneck, Thomas Kincaid knock-off.
It was after midnight; Saturday night, sure, but people go to church. They get up and go to Walmart to beat the unwashed hordes as they save dimes on boxes of pasta.
Noise at this hour is indecent.
If the neighbors weren't contemplating calling the cops, the police should already be on their way. I waited a while, but none of came.
In the yard, shapes and shadows darted around as a pair played tag in the yard. From the sound of it, somebody was hoping to get caught. In the dark, away from the blinding light of the bay window, it might be a kiss might be stolen. Maybe they'd get brave and go off behind the garage for one last taste of summer romance. They could lie on the grass and hide beneath the branches of that tree in the yard.
It was Saturday night. Anything was possible.
I sat on the steps, listened to them hoot and holler like garden variety hillbillies, while I giggled quietly. The music was bad, but there was no gunfire.
It kind of reminded me of home.
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