lawn raze i've lived across the street from them for fifteen years, and i still don't know any of their names. they were friendly when we moved in. they said welcome to the neighbourhood like they were supposed to, and we said thank you like we were supposed to, and one time the woman who's a mother and a wife and a daughter and probably somebody's sister too helped us back out of the driveway when we got stuck in the snow. she and her husband used to say hello whenever they saw us. then the break-in happened. the two detectives assigned to the case talked to our neighbours when they were trying to figure out what brought those speed freaks to our house. there were a few people on the block who saw our front_door getting kicked in and chose to do nothing. the woman across the street was one of them. she said i was probably fucking someone's wife and got what i deserved. she didn't know anything about me. i was a virgin. but that was where her mind went. she turned me into that. none of them have said a word to us since. they won't even look at us. they think we're dirty. there are four of them. she has red hair. i can't tell if it's the colour she was born with or if she dyes it to make it look like that. her husband has a jackhammer of a laugh that makes me want to bite the inside of my mouth until i taste blood and feel soft skin breaking. there's no music in it. her daughter used to sing_among_the_stars through the flared bell of a brass horn, but she doesn't do that anymore. her son pouts and plays computer games and grows his hair because it gives him something to do. they don't have a pet. sometimes they sit on their porch and laugh at all the things they say that i can't hear. the thing she cares about the most is her front lawn. no one's allowed to set foot on it. you walk from the driveway to the thin strip of concrete that leads to the front porch. you go around the grass, or you don't get inside the house. the other night i saw her husband pull into the driveway. he was alone. i watched him move across the grass he isn't allowed to touch unless he's cutting it or watering it or fertilizing it or dreaming about it. he didn't walk. he stomped. he clenched his outsoles into rubber fists and punched the grass his wife probably loves more than she loves him. he dug in his heels and twisted, punishing the ground he rents to own every month. he didn't look angry. he looked desperate. then he shuffled up the front steps, wiped his shoes off at the door, and went inside. 220502 what's it to you? who go blather from