Ginny. (a short story)

I keep staring out my kitchen window this morning as if I will suddenly see Ginny walking to her car. I only know her name is Ginny because a package was delivered here once by mistake. I looked up the name on Facebook and saw her profile picture matching the woman I sometimes see ever so briefly as she leaves for the day.  I don’t even remember her last name, I wouldn’t have recognized the missing person flyer if it didn’t mention my…our street.

I have lived on this street for ten years but don’t know any of the neighbors. Occasionally, I see one of them outside doing yard work or even more rarely one of them will walk their dog by the house. The worst is when I am also outside and am forced to waive. It isn’t that I don’t like the neighbors but I’d rather we all stick to our little zones. I enjoy being irritated by the guy that works on his car every weekend right on the front lawn. It is a little fun to see the mom whose twin boys terrorize the neighborhood post something ridiculous on the community message board that the other moms all jump on. It was not fun to see Ginny’s missing person notice on the message board. It was the only time I wished I was friends with another neighbor so that we could talk about it. Have I seen her this week? If I did, I don’t recall.

They don’t know when she went missing, or from where. Her husband ran out of the house early Wednesday morning to make an early flight. He was in such a rush; he didn’t say goodbye. He said that wasn’t uncommon. She worked from home, apparently, so there was no one at work specifically looking for her. She talked to her sister in Pittsburg every Sunday night, but it was Friday. They didn’t have any pets or young children to help narrow down when she was last seen or to throw up a flag. It was as if one day she was there and then someone blinked, and she was gone.

People in town started leaving things on her front porch. Suddenly, she seemed to have a lot of friends. I don’t recall ever seeing their cars parked next door. None of those friends called the police to say she was missing. Their pity pies and cards just remained out front until eventually someone cleans them up. I don’t see her husband. The police report that there is no evidence that anything happened to her, or that he is a suspect. She could have left on her own, they say as they urge her to call the station to let them know she is safe.

I don’t know her, but somehow now that she isn’t there, I feel a longing. I feel like something is missing. I keep looking out the window.  I am not missing anything though. I didn’t know her and barely saw her. In another life maybe we could have been friends, we both worked from home. Would we have been able to have lunches on the patio? Or morning coffee breaks as we talked about one of the other neighbors? I don’t know. I guess I’ll never know.