At building number 525 on street 25 on the west side of Down, a small town in a small county in a small state, there lived a woman with particularly fluffy hair and a particular attitude toward “cleanliness, neatness, and organization!” as the neighbors would hear her snapping aloud often, and often not to anyone they could see.
She always had a frilly ribbon tied in the right side in the tangle of kinky hair, and her stoop was always pristine. The neighborhood boys would sneak up her steps and drop pieces of garbage on it, taking bets on how long until she’d notice. She had a sense for it – like a dog who hears the jingle of his leash before a walk. Out she’d scurry, robe pulled around her, kinky hair askew, ribbon dancing in the wind, mumbling sharply as she’d bend down to pick up the matchbook, the loose bandaid, or the breadcrumb.
“Cleanliness! Neatness! Organization!” she’d snap and slam the door.