My name is Colin Harper. I live in a quiet neighborhood outside Des Moines where every house looks almost the same and nothing much ever happens. I’m thirty nine, twice divorced, and so used to living alone that silence feels normal.
Most evenings I come home from my accounting job, loosen my tie, heat up something forgettable for dinner, and vacuum the living room even when it doesn’t need it. I once joked at work that I should name the vacuum since it spends more time with me than anyone else. The name Walter stuck. It’s easier to joke than admit you’re lonely.
I’m not unhappy. I just stopped expecting life to surprise me.
Next door lives Linda Matthews. She’s fifty nine and has been a widow for more than twenty years. Her husband died in a car accident on Interstate 80 when she was thirty eight. She never remarried. As far as I know, she never even dated.
For nine years, we’ve mostly just waved at each other. We talk about the weather. About how Iowa humidity ruins her roses. That’s about it.