It was a Tuesday in January. I heard his door creak and I glanced through the peephole. He was there: at least 1.93 m tall, tattooed from head to wrists, a beard that reached down to his chest, a leather vest, his arms full of groceries.
I imagined the worst. "Can I help you?" I asked, opening the door.
He turned and smiled, a smile that softened all his intimidating features. "I'm helping Miss Dorothy with her shopping. She called me."
From inside: "Michael, is that you? Come in! And bring my nosy neighbor too."
I followed her, wary. Dorothy was radiant. Truly radiant.
"This is Michael," she announced proudly. "He's my new employee. I fired the agency yesterday."
Michael unpacked the groceries with ease. "Miss Dorothy prefers her biscuits on the second shelf," he said. "The tea bags go in the box near the stove."
"Did you fire the agency?" I asked. "Do your children know?"
Her smile faded slightly. "They don't need to know everything. I'm not dead yet, despite all their efforts to organize my funeral."
Michael sat down – this imposing man moved with the delicacy of a nurse. "Miss Dorothy, it's noon. Would you like your medication?"
"Please, darling."
He returned with his pillbox and a glass of water. She patted his hand. "Thank you, my love."
Curious, I asked, "How did you two meet?"
Dorothy's eyes sparkled. "He tried to steal my bag."
Michael chuckled softly. "Not exactly."
"Nonsense!" she snapped, waving him away. "I was at the shop, I couldn't reach the prune juice. He leaned over me – I thought he was after my bag, so I hit him with my cane."
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