I want to be precise about the first morning, because later she would describe it as a misunderstanding, and it was not. It was a Saturday. I had the day off. My wife had slept in, which for her meant seven-thirty. I came out with a cup of coffee to move my car so I could take the recycle bin around. The driveway was empty. My sedan was gone. For a half second I thought I had forgotten where I parked, which is a thought you have when you are tired and not a thought you should have in your own driveway. Then I heard the diesel tick of a tow truck already turning the corner, amber light still winking, and I saw Karen standing on our apron in a linen blazer with her arms folded, as if she were supervising a crew she had hired to improve the view.
Her white sedan sat halfway into our garage. Nose in. Trunk out. The door could not close because she had not pulled it all the way through, or because she wanted the street to see it. I still do not know which. Both were possible. Both were rude.
“What are you doing?” I said.
She did not look embarrassed. She looked inconvenienced that I had asked. “Your car was in the way of community business. I had it moved. This one needs to be inside. It is worth more than yours. I am not leaving it on the street where anyone can door it.”
I looked at the empty driveway. I looked at the rear quarter of her car sitting on a slab we had sealed the previous spring. I looked at the coffee in my hand and understood I was not going to drink it. “You towed my car out of my driveway and put yours in my garage.”