I pulled the blinds back an inch and squinted out at the driveway.
“What exactly are you doing?”
For one second, I thought I was imagining what I saw. Then I followed the cable with my eyes.
Monica’s white Tesla sat pressed up close to my property line, and a thick black cable ran from the side of the car straight to the outdoor outlet on my garage wall.
I threw on my robe and slippers and walked out into the cool night air, my heart beating harder than it had in months.
Monica leaned against her car, scrolling on her phone, calm as a Sunday morning.
“Eleanor, come on.”
“Monica,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. “What exactly are you doing?”
She looked up without a trace of shame.
“Charging my car. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” I answered, folding my arms, “is that cable is plugged into MY house.”
She rolled her eyes and slipped the phone into her back pocket.
“Because of THIS.”
“Eleanor, come on. You live alone. How much electricity could you possibly need?”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It kind of is, though,” she went on, waving a hand at my quiet little house. “I have three kids. I’m running errands all day. You’re retired. You just sit inside.”
I felt the heat rise up the back of my neck.
“My bill doubled last month, Monica. Doubled. Because of THIS.”
“I’m almost done.”
She gave an irritated little laugh.
“Fine. I’ll give you ten bucks if it matters that much. Don’t be greedy, Eleanor. It’s just a little electricity.”
Greedy. That word landed harder than she knew. I had spent forty years being the woman who baked casseroles for grieving families and watered plants for neighbors on vacation.
“Please unplug the cable,” I said quietly.
“This is why I didn’t ask.”
“I’m almost done. Ten more minutes.”
