The humid air pressed down on Bernard as he lugged his overflowing recycling bin to the curb. Across the perfectly manicured lawn, Mrs. Hawthorne’s gardener was meticulously trimming the hedges, the clippers a precise, expensive hum. Bernard’s eyes narrowed. He knew what she was hiding, the old bat. That antique Rolls Royce tucked away in her garage, the trips to the Hamptons. He was still stuck with a leaky faucet and a mortgage that felt like a python squeezing the life out of him.
He slammed his bin onto the sidewalk with unnecessary force. The clatter echoed down the street, loud enough to disrupt the gardener’s rhythm. He enjoyed the small, fleeting surge of satisfaction. Let them enjoy their peace, their privileged lives.
The sun beat down on his neck. He adjusted the angle of his baseball cap, a cheap thing he'd bought at a gas station. Mrs. Hawthorne, he knew, would never shop in such a place. He pictured the gardener’s pristine white shirt, unblemished by sweat, and a fresh wave of something akin to acid washed over his insides.
He made a mental note to complain about the overgrown branches from her oak tree that were casting a shadow over his vegetable garden. He'd done it before, and he could do it again.