At this very moment, as I write this, I am looking down on the street from my third-storey kitchen window. Below me, a very attractive woman sits in a smart, yet nondescript, Lexus with a Private Investigator. The reasons I know he's a private investigator are two-fold. 1) He is wearing a gun holster over his shirt & tie. 2) He is showing her 8x10 photo's of some kind. Whatever is on those pictures, the news can't be good. The woman has just spent a good minute smashing her fists into the dashboard and is now broken down in tears, sobbing into the passenger side window. I'm making the assumption that this poor woman's fella is doing the dirty on her, or something worse. Who knows?
Just another Sunday morning in the neighbourhood I suppose.
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