Wendy woke up around 5 am. She gripped the side of her night-table and pulled herself out of bed and then walked downstairs. She needed to get the paper. She did not place a single garment upon her frail body. Her white hair was shoulder length, her blue eyes were brilliant, and her skin sagged. Down the stairs, out the door, and to where the morning’s paper lay on the concrete stoop she shuffled. She bent over, gravity pulling upon her skin, pulling and straining it towards the ground. She reached a curled, arthritic finger towards the bundle of local news. Her late husband had often growled, “It is more a newsletter than a newspaper. They can't even do a decent obituary.” But, regardless of what Old Henry had thought, he had gotten a lovely obituary.
Wendy grasped the plastic rapped bundle, and righted her aged body to an upright position. Slowly. Standing as straight as she could, she took in the neighborhood. She stood as a matriarch should: back straight, head moving slowly from left to right scanning and observing, her lips smiling. She smiled without showing any teeth because, well that just isn’t how a queen should smile; it would be vulgar. One might think vulgarity an insane attribute to aspire towards while registering the fact that Wendy was in deed standing upon the stoop of her home, within the confines of a neighborhood occupied by families and children, naked- not that there is anything wrong with a naked body, but it would be shocking in the confined burbs. The matriarch, if one would allow such illusions, didn't possess a concern in her mind. She stood completely and unabashedly naked. Wendy turned to re-enter her home. But, out of the corner of her cataract-eyes she noticed Mr. Thompson walking out of his house: briefcase in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. Oddly, Wendy registered hat he was another neighbor who had purchased an automobile that could be started within the confines of their home. Before they were even strapped into the steel frames, the leather seats could be warmed and ready for the worker bees en route. Good for them, she thought. Although Wendy had never driven, she could appreciate comfort. Because she saw him, she thought it fitting to wave. She raised one arm straight in the air, again gravity pulling and shifting her skin, and with the slightest twist of her wrist she waved. Mr. Thompson had walked out of his home still fighting the desire to climb under his down comforter and feel the form of his wife lying beside him. Instead, he was freshly showered, his suit was on, his hair combed with precision and patience, his car was running. Then, he saw her. Mr. Thompson saw, from across the street, that Wendy Johns, his elderly neighbor whom he had known since he had moved to the neighborhood, was standing on her front porch stark naked. He stopped and he stared. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t believe that she was standing there without a stitch of clothing on and she was waving to him. She was actually raising her hand and waving to him. He was jolted from his trance by the scalding contents of his coffee cup falling unnervingly close to his wool, suit-pant covered privates. He growled obscenities that would have been indecent to say in front of a woman of Mrs. John’s age or his children- despite her present condition and the likelihood that they had heard far worse on the bus ride to school. He kept moving to the car, opened the door and sat down. In his rear-view mirror he saw the wrinkled, sun deprived white ass of Mrs. Wendy Johns disappear within her house, and he muttered, “Friday.”