You remarked on the inefficiency of living on the side of a mountain and I stared into the yard. I passed you my cigarette. When you asked if I would consider living in the city I could only scoff. The city. You looked at the old house further up the mountain and noted that a middle-aged blonde woman standing on her balcony could look into my yard and see anything at all, and that it was too open there beneath my wild plum tree. I wasn’t worried about the blonde woman. I mentioned the breeze and you scoffed. The breeze. I wouldn’t look at you and you finally asked why I was staring into the weeds. I asked if you were serious but didn’t care for the answer. I tossed the remaining cigarettes the following weekend and stared into the yard with only the jays and crows to keep me company. There had to be something out there.