She avoids opening the door even though her name is being called out like a scratching upon her threshold.
Tightening her belt on her dingy white robe spotted with months of coffee stains, she is preparing for a fight.
Forcing her gnarly, yellowish toes into her once fuzzy, powder blue slippers, now dirty and matted from wearing them outside, she grunts while making several tries at getting out of her thirty year old lounge chair. Moving closer to the door she commands, “Stay away, I’ve told you before.”
“We’ve come to dance with you. Come twist in the wind with us. Put on your shocking pink gardening gloves, open your garage door, and chase us with your broom.”
“I’ve gotten rid of you many times before, yet when the music of the wind begins, you dance along my door and I can’t keep you out of my house,” Beatrice replies.
“Come dance with us before the rain.”
Her head resting against the door, remembering what it felt like to be a teenager, fighting off suitors, and the boys at the high school dances. One boy would advance toward her with his hand out as the song “Only You” began to play. She reaches out for the doorknob as if it is his young hand. He pulls her close and whispers her name in her ear, “Beatrice.”
She begins fluffing her stringy hair as if readying herself for a date. Goes into the garage, puts on her shocking pink gloves and takes her broom as if carrying an evening purse.
Her suitors are wearing red and brown starched shirts, whirling around her as she makes harmony with the music of the wind, flirting with each one of them as they swoon to her charm, coming to rest in a pile.
The next morning, a neighbor found the lifeless body of eighty-one year old Beatrice in a pile of leaves.