The fourth time she did it, I didn’t even blink.
I stood behind the slats of my front blinds, coffee cooling in my hand, watching Constance Birchfield Holt walk with that same unhurried confidence she used for everything—like the street belonged to her, like the air itself was something she’d approved in committee.
Mint green cardigan.
Canvas tote bag.
Sunglasses that never came off, even when the sky was gray.
She crossed the little stretch of sidewalk to the cluster mailbox bank—our neighborhood’s shiny metal hive of locked doors—and she didn’t hesitate. She opened her box, closed it, then shifted one step to the right like it was the most natural thing in the world.
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