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I should just sell this place. It’s too much money to keep it up and I don’t really even want to live here. Besides Nora is such a bitch. Always watching me, in the garden doing God knows what. She wants everything her way. I don’t have to be nice to her now but she still bugs me. She thinks she knows something but she doesn’t. At least Sam is on my side. Victoria would be a tough one to win over. I know she doesn’t trust me. So what. She’s just hired help. I know. I used to pay her to look after Don. She thinks she has soul, knows things because she meditates and, I don’t know, communes with nature or something. Has some higher calling. Old hippie, if you ask me. Being nice to old people only gets you so far. I have to say it go me pretty far but now I’m done with it. I think I need to learn how to enjoy what I’ve got but there always seems to be something in the way.

You know I keep seeing this woman who looks familiar around that drug house down the street. But every time she see me, she disappears. She’s up to something. She keeps eyeing the house, looking from that one spot where you can see Nora’s place. That’s the best place. I’d like to get her to move and I could live there and rent out the flats in front. That would be sweet. Of course, I’d need some more money to buy the other two places. Dear, sweet Sam might be my ticket. He loves Nora but I’ve got something she doesn’t have and he wants it. Still have my pretty boy looks so I might as well put them to good use. I can’t believe he’s doping her ice tea. There has to be a way I can take advantage of that. Make her doubt herself. Make her uncomfortable enough that she just wants to leave.

People are easy really. Most of the time, they just want to be liked, appreciated, noticed. They want to feel somebody cares and that they’ve done something with their lives but that’s probably all crap. We all come and go and we’re lucky if anyone can recall our name after a couple of generations pass us by. At best I’ll be like the oval portraits of two unknown women Don had hanging in his living room that he picked up in second hand stores. Each in her ornate frame, one looked like Virginia Wolf, the other with a more fashionable hair-do of the 1920’s we called Midge. They each belonged to somebody once, part of some family but they got tossed out, nobody wanted them, so they lost their names, and now they’re just images anyone can claim.


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