The neighbors across the sidewalk I like and who like me back (the kind that watch your cat when you're out of town and who you trust with a key) are cleaning this morning. So cute together they are, he's on a small ladder washing a window from the outside, she's on the other side of the pane pointing out smudges. He always does the heavy lifting.
Wish I was them. They spend nearly all their time together. She has a grown son now living there, a baggy-panted, ciggie smoking 20-something kid always with the ball cap; he's sweet and says hello, asks how I am and smiles. But the two of them are a duo. They take day and weekend and longer trips, packing up the Outback with coolers of sodas and snacks. They always bring me back a small gift, a thank you for watering the plants or bringing in the mail (once a basket of impossibly tiny and so sweet wild blueberries from Maine). In their little townhouse they have two chairs, a his and hers, pointed at the telly. They eat dinner together every night on TV trays there. On weekend mornings when the screen door is open I can peek in and see them sharing breakfast at the small two person table. Two place mats.
Wish I was them.