The Neighbor Girl
I sat on the front porch of my modest, two-bedroom home at 5937 Wilmington Drive, enjoying a glass of delicious ice cold lemonade, as I watched the neighbor girl across the street getting out of her car. She was twenty-three, had shoulder length, auburn brown hair, a nice slim waist, and long, lovely legs. Though I was not certain of her name, I had reason to believe she was called Jessica. Jessica Davis, her name would be, since I had spoken to her father, Mark Davis, numerous times. The...