On Needing to Always Carry My Keys

Every day after lunch, Chad and I take a leisurely stroll down our very long driveway to check the mail. It’s a nice break in the middle of the day, a chance to get outside for two people who work from home and could go from the time they wake up until the end of the working day without ever seeing the sun.

On the way back from the mailbox today, I mentioned that I was going to water my hanging flower baskets, which are feeling no love for this North Carolina summer heat, no matter what Lowe’s Garden Center says about them needing full sun. As I was balancing on the narrow brick wall I have to scale to reach the baskets, I heard two distinctive clicks coming from the direction of the house. I looked toward the door and saw that, where it had been ajar moments before, it was now closed.

“Did you just lock me out?” I called.

No answer, but after a moment I heard two more clicks and the door crept open.

“Did you just lock me out?” I asked again.

Chad poked his head out the door. “Oops!”

“Oh, you are so busted!” I laughed, then tottered down the brick wall to the next hanging basket as Chad ducked back inside.

He’ll be living this down for days, I tell you. Days.

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