Box of Wonders
After the funeral, Ellen was left with the task of settling the estate. She was, after all, Aunt Ellen's namesake and lived the closest, reasoned her brothers, eager to shirk responsibility.
The attic was a solid two steps below a Hoarders episode: she only found *one* dead squirrel.
What was more surprising was at the bottom of a box of pastel pantsuits -- a shoebox tied with twine. Ellen lifted out letter wrapped in a black lace negligee, the spicy smell of old paper and faded perfume wafting into the dust-chocked air.
Gingerly she put them back, burying her maiden aunt.
My grandma used to tell me, "No good comes from listening on the other side of closed doors, Sally." I guess I've always been a little too curious for my own good.
When I moved in, my roommate and I laughed at the newlyweds next door -- but the amusement quickly faded once their amour turned to passion of another kind, prompting us to keep the TV on to drown them out.
My roommate moved; it got too much for her. Now I sit here on the other side of the apartment, waiting for the gunshots I know will come.
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