Marty in July

A car pulls up. And another one. A third. The cat sits on the porch and watches the action. Four more cars arrive, the last two fighting to fit between the oak tree and the driveway in the muddy grass. They all sit there, silently, as if no one had driven them there and no one was waiting to get out. But no, these weren't magical cars; there were drivers and passengers inside, and they were most definitely waiting. Even the cat knew that no one would move until that dingy green door opened, and Marty put down her can of beer to wave them in. The silence lingers, and then a breeze blows it away, rustling the leaves of the tree and causing the cat to stretch out a bit further. Finally Marty's shadow moves past old peach-colored curtains, and the door opens matter-of-factly. Blue eyes, dark grey hair, and a faded red dress color her 5'5" frame. She looks at the cat, nods as it decides to go inside, and collects her mail from the box next to her door. She glances slightly at her bills and slightly at her guests, takes a sip of her beer, and waves at the small gang of autos converged on her front lawn.