I had noticed her here and there. I'm not going to lie and say she was some bombshell who looked better than a woman half her age. She had dirty blonde hair, large breasts with a bit of a sag, a stomach with the slight pouch of a woman who has had kids, and a large, meaty ass--all not bad for a woman of her age. As for her age, she was somewhere between her late forties and early fifties, at a guess. I'm not so crass as to ask a woman her age. She often tended to the flowers outside her home, dressed in either a one-piece bathing suit that clung to her body well, or short shorts and a tank top or sports bra.
I had been driving home from work, bumping slowly down the one-way dirt road that led to my house. Her home was just before mine, and as most days, I glanced over and saw her. She was attempting and failing to lift a wheelbarrow. Well, I refused to be a shitty neighbor, so I pulled into my drive, parked, and headed over to help.
"Let me do that, Ma'am."
"Oh, thanks. I guess I overfilled it."
It wasn't too bad but certainly quite heavy. I showed her where she wanted it. I set it down and was about to continue on my day.
"You mind helping me out? Pull pork and a glass of homemade lemonade in it for you."
I looked back toward my house. I had planned on a simple fare of a sandwich, a few beers while sitting outside, and reading a book.
"Sounds better than what I have planned. Alright, Ma'am."
I followed her around, lifting plants or bags of soil. At some point, the sun was beating down, and sweat soaked into my shirt.
"I don't mind if you take your shirt off. It's certainly too hot for it."
I grunted but did so. Again, I'm not going to bs you--I'm strong and work in the trades. Bearing the eighteen-year-old kids working the summer tradesmen have two body types: crack heads or beer bellies. I'm the latter--broad in the shoulders, thick in the chest, and potbellied. She watched me for a second, but I didn't pay any mind, and we continued her yard work for about another hour.
We put away her tools and wheelbarrow and then headed into her home. Our houses were similar, as many manufactured homes are, but the differences were on display. I had few decorations, and while cleaning a few dishes that I commonly used were on the strainer and cobwebs could be found in the corners. Her home was spotless; pictures of her family decorated the walls and knickknacks covered shelves. A few comfy chairs and couches were in the living room, and she had a large table in the dining room.
