You

     You tug at the pant legs of your expensive jeans so they hang just so over your fashionable boots just so. "Let's get this over with," you say to them with a grimace. Your beau squeezes your shoulder and reaches for your hand. You wince. That hurts, he thinks. He remembers to hide his pain. One older brother checks the car door locks. He doesn't care for the neighborhood. The other-- younger-- stands in the driveway, hands pushed deep into his pockets. "Yeah, get 'er done," he mumbles. He wants to get back to the hotel and the stash in his suitcase. 

     The four of you walk up the driveway and onto the ramp. "New paint job," the concerned brother says. The doper brother is staring about the grounds and the foundation plants. It's a grand house. If he owned all of this, he'd be sure to put in a locked greenhouse way in the back. You know his fantasies well. You glare at him, "Forget it," you say. "You'll never be able to afford this." He flips you the bird when he thinks you aren't looking.

     One of the workers responds to the doorbell and ushers all of you inside. Your overly-applied perfume hangs like sticky fog, not even dissipating in the breeze.  It is good enough. I grab my tools from the back shed and go to work on your shiny automobile. You deserve this. The job is completed in less than a minute. Excellent.

     I crouch behind the bush just under the drawing room window on the far side of the house. I can hear you perfectly. Not so much your words. Those skid around me, vacant and unfeeling. It is your tone of voice that dances around the room clearly and then flings itself with abandon out to my hiding place. A nearby squirrel chatters. He chases another one to a sickly oak. Up and around they go in a crazy zigzag.

     Your beau-- I allow myself a moment to feel sorry for him-- does not realize that he is second fiddle to your swollen false ego. He has often speculated on who his competition for your affection might be. He has hacked into your computer [your first cat's name as a password] and hunted through your addresses. One suspect turned out to be a cousin living in Chicago. Another a much loved gay friend.

     Your grandfather, usually lost to his dementia, is having a clear day. Your beau goes off to find the men's room. "He's not marriage material," he tells you plainly. "Oh grandpa, what do you know?" 

     "Where's your respect?" your younger brother whispers to you. You kick him in the shin. He winces but says nothing further. Grandpa is dying and he doesn't want to upset him. "A gambler," your older brother nods knowingly for Grandpa's benefit but not yours. You glare at him. Screw this, you tell yourself. Your beau returns. "Gotta go Gramps," you say as you bend down to kiss his papery skin. You drag your bodyguards away.

     Your older brother starts the car.