Sia lives in a hill on the outer suburbs of town. Her doorway is wide enough for two with a rabbit knocker on one side and a peephole on the other, large enough to see your face through. Her lawns are neatly trimmed every two weeks, surrounded by white picket fences. She has a chimney on top of her hilltop roof filled with red poppies. You can only tell it’s a house by the red mailbox at the side of her driveway.
She has a car tucked away in the garage, a red Mini Cooper she uses once a week. She prefers to stay at home attending her plants and herbs, diligently writing her short stories and novels while shutting the rest of the world away.
She loves her peace and quiet.
She needs them like the morning sun on her Spanish back porch, overlooking a wide field of wheat grass downhill; like her morning coffee with no sugar; her light menthol cigarettes and broadband internet; like the cool breeze blowing through her round windows, swaying daisies along her window sills.
