It ain't heavy; it's my house

I rent. I have been married for ten years and I have a nine-year-old son. I have an adult job and a dog and a cat. I own my car. Yet, I do not own property.

I really regret that now. See, I live in a pretty okay neighborhood, but my rent is super (as we Laredoans say) cheap. Very cheap. Why? It's cheap because my house is on half a lot. I don't have a back yard. That's because the property owner built a small house (like the size of an apartment) in the original back yard.

There used to be a really nice lady who lived there. Then she got really sick and diagnosed with MS and had to move back to the Valley.

Then he moved in. He of the booming voice and the massive drinking problem. I didn't pay attention, but Richard said could tell. A few months ago, he came by the house and invited me for some coffee and biscuits. I said I couldn't, but he insisted. I begged Richard to go with me, but he was really sick. I decided I would go, take it to go and come home. Instead I was talked into going in and spent at least 30 minutes there. During these long 30 minutes, he told me his life story -- that he could speak four languages, had enough money saved to give his daughter $10,000 during her divorce and that I reminded him of his ex-wife. I was pretty close to crying, but that quickly changed into nausea when he took my hand and insisted on kissing it when I got up to leave.

I came home and turned off all the lights and went to bed certain that he was watching me through his window. I now doubt that happened; I let it go.

Apparently, I'm too forgiving or naive because I went to throw the trash out last night and saw him talking to somebody as he locked the gate. Normally I wouldn't make anything of it. I try to sneak in and out as quickly as possible (he's hard of hearing), except this time, he wasn't wearing a shirt or pants. Yes, he was outside in his gigantic tidy white briefs.