I stand in the tall grass of the front yard. It’s high enough to brush my knees, the ends brown and tipped with flowers and seeds. At one time, this was the nicest yard on the block. He would cut it once, sometimes twice, a week and the fine fescue grass never got more than two inches tall. It was a luscious, green carpet. The envy of the neighbourhood. Once I arrived, though, that quickly changed.

I smooth the lapels on my black jacket and adjust the bowler on my head. I have to appear just right, just as I have every day for the last nine months. When those curtains move, I must look like I haven’t moved at all.

The curtains on the large front window are still. Though my face remains expressionless, I feel a twinge of disappointment. Is this it? Is my work here done?

I take in the small home in front of me. It’s been a pleasant nine months, standing in this man’s front yard. I’ve watched with satisfaction as the whitewashed siding on this neat little rancher became dirty and peeling. Enjoyed seeing the mail overflowing from the little box perched by the front door. Felt immense pleasure watching the once picture-perfect front yard devolve into the scraggly, overgrown mess so common to shut-ins.

I sigh, looking over the house one last time, committing it to memory. It’s been a good nine months.

A flutter at the window. I spot the sliver of a pale face peering through the curtains. I smile wide and raise my hand in a wave. The eyes of the pale face widen and the curtains shut quickly. I continue to smile and wave for several seconds, in case he looks again. Once I’m sure he’s not going to look again, I lower my hand, mentally congratulating myself on a job well done and quite happy that my job here is not done. I’m still smiling.