Sara took a few steps away from the haphazard conversation and made her way down the staircase in the hopes that she’d spot the landlord. Still nobody. Then the thought entered her head: What street are we on, anyway?
She made her way down the second staircase and out onto the main sidewalk. She walked all the way over to the left side of the complex to see the street sign: Canterbury.
Like The Canterbury Tales? Sara thought. We’d live on a literary street. How fitting.
An ear-splitting dog bark caught her attention from her right, and Sara turned to see a man standing just yards away, smoking a cigarette, supervising his three girly poodles as they proceeded to poop on the neighbor’s front lawn. Sara smiled at the dogs, briefly, before meeting her eyes with those of the old man. They were cold and calculating, like they were burning a hole right through her fetus-infested belly. He was pale and gaunt, with a scruffy goatee and light, graying hair. He wore a thin black sweatshirt and loose shorts that looked like sweatpants cut off from below the knees. Oddest of all was a pair of long white socks that stretched from the bottom of his feet to the top of his shorts. He looked like a mix of a homeless man, a serial killer, and an animal-friendly eccentric. He didn’t look away. He just kept staring at Sara, as if he wanted to feed her to his dogs for dinner.
Sara turned around and started walking back toward the complex. Every few steps she turned around to survey the scary fellow, who could’ve been as young as forty and as old as eighty—she couldn’t really tell. Finally he stopped looking at her and instead focused his attention back on his ferocious mutts. When Sara made her way back to the staircase, she hid behind a large, decaying plant and watched as the irregularly dressed man walked his three dogs around the corner and down the left side driveway of the complex.
Something’s not right with this guy…