I have the house to myself this weekend.
A few minutes ago the doorbell rang. I knew who it was: a neighbor-girl bringing change for a twenty, for a tchotchke I bought in support of some school program.
But I didn't answer.
I held myself still. Frozen. Breath slowed to the dimmest of oxygen intake. I was a spy.
After all, why just write about the stuff? Why not actually live it every once and a while?