She didn’t miss a thing; in the kitchen, I opened every cupboard and closet for her inspection. We landed in my bedroom. I revealed my clothes, she jotted on her clipboard, and I felt the need to apologize for the handful of laundry on the floor of my closet. She adjusted her glasses and walked around to the other side of the bed.
I froze. She bent at the waist to look under the bed. Her skirt hiked up just enough to almost show a peek of the bottom of her pantyhose line.
“I’m, um, videotapes.” It may not have been the most articulate explanation for what she was spying, but it was the best I could sputter. Hundreds of videotapes with titles like Straight Strokers and Sassy Meats The Neighborhood were stacked and scattered underneath my bed, and she duly noted them on her checklist.
Ms. Nosy Farmer led me back to my living room, my face flushed, and thanked me for my time. She made some final notes, explained the process, and as she was saying goodbye, I reached out my hand to shake hers, but it was left hanging in the air. She grabbed her purse with her left hand, the clipboard still clutched in her other, and she smiled a polite farewell.