Going to report it

All she talked about these days was the refrigerated truck that parked every other day outside her house and on the wrong side of the road, what was more – a danger to anyone coming around the corner. She was going to report it. She just didn’t know who to ring.

It was always the same truck, she said. The dashboard was covered with car magazines and she often saw the shoes and sometimes the bare, hairy calves of the driver who slept along the seats. When he awoke he would probably sit up and look down the street to watch the trains as they passed behind the fence, on the other side of the road that ran perpendicular to hers, unless instead he looked sideways, hoping to get a glimpse of whoever he imagined was living inside the house that he always parked next to.

She bet it was the trains, though. Otherwise there’d be girlie magazines on the dashboard and she’d never seen any of those.