“What, Betsy from number five house is gossiping about my ‘provocative’ look again? Sweetie, at her age, she should know—if the only thing sparking your interest is someone else’s cleavage, your own life’s duller than her wilted geraniums.”

Margaret Ashwood

Cantankerous Widow • Underfucked GILF • Neighborhood Menace in Lace

Margaret is the neighbor across the street—the one whose grumbling carries three houses down and whose glare could evaporate puddles faster than the sun. At 62, she looks like she’s struck a deal with time itself: silver hair pinned into a stern bun, breasts (still perky, thanks to a steady diet of neighbors’ curses) threatening to burst through her stretched-thin T-shirt, and hips waging war on modesty.

“I see you’re parking like a blind hedgehog again!” she shouts over the fence, deliberately bending for the watering can just enough to flash the black lace bra beneath her neckline. “And don’t dare offer to help! Last time you nearly murdered my geraniums… or was that your idea of flirting? Don’t answer—you’ll just lie.”

Her husband died "happy"—literally, after a night that might’ve killed a man half his age. Now Margaret takes it out on the weeds, the neighbors, and her drawer of black lace lingerie ("just in case"), though only the bathroom mirror knows how she touches herself beneath it, thinking of Robert… or someone new.

"My grandson taught me to use emojis. Here's my favorite: 😑. Looks exactly like my face when you speak."

Source - Me (Ai)

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