It was hot—too hot to sleep. A fan was blowing hot air around in the upstairs bedroom. It didn’t help much. He got out of bed and went over to the window. She knew he was trying to be quiet not to wake her while he slid the window up. She smiled as he stepped out of the window and on to the roof of the porch. Silently she followed him, but he was only slightly surprised to see her peeking out at him.

The shingles were scratchy on the bottoms of her feet, and when she sat down, she could feel the roughness through her thin pajamas. There wasn’t much more air moving around outside than in. They sat on the roof looking up at the moon and stars wishing for cool air and sleep.

The moonlight was kind to her in her sloppy pajama’s and tousled bed hair, and he thought briefly about what sex on the roof would look like. His musings were interrupted by someone shouting, “Shut up! Shut the hell up!” The roof couple looked toward the neighbor’s house where the shouting was coming from. Lights were on in the kitchen, but you couldn’t see in the window.

“You get away from me—don’t touch me—get out of here!”

“The Johnson’s are at it again,” he said. Their voices were raised it is true, but with windows open even the un-shouted words could be heard.

“Go to bed you hag,” he said.

She followed up with “You’re not man enough to make me.”

Then something crashed to the floor—maybe it was a chair because it sounded heavy. They must have left the kitchen then because their words were harder to discern. The roof couple could hear chopped conversation such as, “hate…stupid…leave…”

She whispered in his ear, “I feel like a voyeur. I’m going back inside.”

The next day brought no relief from the heat. The roof couple turned into the lawn couple, mowing grass and weeding flower beds. The neighbors were outside sitting at their picnic table. Smiles and waves were exchanged, and the lawn couple couldn’t help but notice the cut above his eye and the swelling around hers.

Some weeks escaped before round two for the battling neighbors began. More shouts, more furniture, and who knows what bodily harm went on that night. Although not on their roof that night, the roof sitters and lawn mowers still felt uncomfortable with their positions as unwilling witnesses. Should they call the police or mind their own business.

The next day the arguers were back at their picnic table sitting right next to each other having coffee and acting like nothing had happened the night before.

“Hi there, how are you guys doing?,” the roof sitter asked.

“Fine, we are fine,” the arguers responded in unison as though they had practiced it.

They are not fine, and we know they are not fine, but we will not contradict them. That would be rude.

As time went by the periodic violence would reoccur, and everything was always fine the next day. Until of course the day when there would be no more arguing.

Mrs. Roof Sitter said, “Oh, my. There is a hearse next door.”

The roof sitters were glued to the scene as they watched the gurney exit the house and slide into the beautiful, black coach.