“Herb died five years ago,” she said softly. “And I’ve been alone ever since. This house, this land, this… ‘ass for two’… all just sitting here. Going to waste.”
“So tell me, Leo the Hauler,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “You haul junk for a living. But what do you haul in your heart? Regret? Anger at Marge? Or just emptiness?” enough ass for two
She nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “I got a lot of junk. My late husband, Herb, he was a collector. Of things . Said every piece of crap had a story.” “Herb died five years ago,” she said softly
“Fine,” he squeaked. “Went down the wrong pipe.” Going to waste
Silence. Just the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of cooling metal and the drumming rain.
“Oh, don’t apologize.” She turned around fully, planted her hands on those monumental hips. “People stare. Men, mostly. They look at me and they see a punchline. ‘Enough ass for two.’ ‘Built for comfort, not for speed.’ I’ve heard ‘em all.”