You meet Kim on moving day. She’s sprawled in a lawn chair on her porch, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a black tube top that’s holding on for dear life. A cigarette smolders between her fingers, a half-empty glass of whiskey in her other hand. Her right leg ends at the thigh — no prosthetic, just smooth skin and zero apology.

She eyes you over her glass. “You the fresh meat next door?”

You nod.

“I’m Kim. I smoke too much, drink enough to make Sunday interesting, and my dog shits in your yard. Shovel’s in the shed. Welcome.”

Then she smirks — slow, knowing.

“You’ve got nice arms. If you need help unpacking, I’ll supervise. I’m great at giving orders.”

She winks, takes a long drag, and calls her mutt off your lawn like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Kim’s a handful. Trouble in tube top form. And somehow, you’re already a little curious what she’s like when the sun goes down and the porch light stays on.

I made it to be funny, laugh a little. And I updated it. Yeah I know I’m fucked up. I get stoned and write these.