“I don’t like that hedge around the Henderson’s yard.”
He rattled his newspaper in response.
“I’m serious Richard. How am I supposed to walk up to their porch after they’ve shut themselves apart like that?”
“Now Edna Mae, you know that’s nonsense. We saw them out there just the other night, as friendly as can be.”
“You mark my words. People are growing colder, more distant.”
They had another forty-one years of marriage together. After she died, he spent three days building a white picket fence around their yard. She’d been right about one thing: he’d never felt more alone.