Down the Lane

She never understood why I love living here. The Irish call this Down the Lane. Down the Lane is derogatory term. The nice people, the people with money, don’t want to live Down the Lane.

I love telling people I live Down the Lane.

The lane is quiet. Especially here, at the end of the cobblestone, where the lane end. Here, at the end, is where we bought the flat. The neighbors are polite. Even the Russian family, two doors up on the right, seem to get along with everyone.

When it came time, Sergey was especially helpful. As was old Widow Montcliff. It was Widow Montcliff who gave me the powder. She was happy to give me the powder. Widow Montcliff was not fond of her yelling and complaining all the time.

Widow Montcliff giggled like a little girl when she handed me the powder.

Sergey showed me where to make the cuts.

Sergey and Widow Montcliff are my alibi.

They were there when she left me. The where there when I reported her missing, Sergey and Widow Montcliff confirmed my story. They told the Garda Síochána they watched her storm out of the flat and up the lane.

I told the Garda I have no idea where she went. Her parents say they have not heard from her.

Good riddance.

Sergey and Widow Montcliff watched the new concrete floor get poured in the cellar.

She never understood why I loved living here.

She is no longer a bother.

Written: March 19, 2020
Words: 240

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