mr. and mrs.

Mr. ducked in thought. It was hard to ignore the sounds of a distant truck rolling up some faraway drive, with its insistent ummm-umm of the engine, but there were more pressing things to think about right now. Avoiding the next vase was up there on his list of “things to think about”, because Mrs.’s aim had been progressing far too quickly these past few weeks. When they first started having the angry little spats (which now occured far, far too often for his safety), the porcelain used to crack at a fairly laughable yard or two away, but now here he was, sitting out on the stairs in front of his own house, picking the last bits of a saucer out of his jacket. Sighing, he brushed off his sleeve, jerking slightly at a hidden splinter which had pricked him on the finger. Blood welled up, just a drop or so. As he studied the quivering beadlet of red on his pinky, Mr. noticed that the horrid truck noise had gotten louder. Much, much louder, in fact. The umm had turned into a full haRUMMM of exhaust-choked rumble, and even from where he sat on the front steps, crouched away from Mrs.’s line of sight, he could see the glint of metal pulling next to the curb next door.

A sixteen-wheeler, parked in the middle of suburbia? Mr. could feel himself gaping, and heard the clump of Mrs.’s feet behind him, not in her usual vindicative chase but rather in astonishment. Why, it took up practically the whole block, or more. It was the kind that was glorious on the road: one of those shiny monumental behemouths of the modern world that smoothly and easily pushed its way through highway traffic, of which Mrs. was always so afraid of. He marveled as the truck gave a heaving sigh and the engine muttered itself into nothingness. Silence seemed to fill up the street, filing in sullenly after the sudden entry of highway noise.

The door opened neatly, and slammed shut after a man. Mr. noted his agitation: the man was clearly in a hurry, his mouth working rapidly up and down over a piece of gum or something of the sort. With quick steps the man walked up the lawn, bypassing the driveway and path that led up to the door, and Mr. could hear a sharp intake of breath from behind him– Mrs. hated a lawn crumpled by unwonted strangers. A quick knock on the door, swift and sharp, once, twice, three times, and the door of the Professor finally opened to let the man in.

Mr. and Mrs. had always called the Professor by his profession, ever since their first handshake and welcoming party three years ago, because that’s how the Professor had introduced himself. “I’m a Professor,” he had announced, and there was no doubt in Mr.’s mind that this was no mere lecturer from one of the nearby colleges, but definetely a Professor, capital P included. The Professor was all-in-all a very “nice man”, as Mrs. liked to put it; “a little too clean-shaven and handsome to be good for any college student, if you know what I mean, but he’s quite nice, and a good neighbor too, Harold. He always wears such well-pressed clothes, you should really let me buy you collars like that, I don’t understand why you like your natty old sweaters so” and so on so forth. Indeed, the Professor was a good neighbor who was never too loud and kept his lawn tidy (which had made Mrs. like him all the more), and he kept to himself very well.