My One Rule

There was only one rule: Don’t open the door. I asked them nicely. I pull another nail from the pile. It’s always the young ones who don’t listen. I hold the nail and slam the hammer down on its head. They think they’re bigger and better and stronger. Slam. That the rules don’t apply to them. Slam. It was my one rule for staying in my little house. My little rental. Slam. Slam. But they never listen.

I stand back and survey my work. I’m old, and tired. So I can’t hammer more nails now. My strength is waning. I can only do so much these days. But these nails should hold. I brush off my apron, and drag the can of nails and hammer away from the door. I’ll put them away after I rest a spell. So much work, cleaning up after those awful kids.

I won’t rent to college kids again. I sip my sweet tea, I’ve finally perfected the recipe. It used to be too sweet, or not sweet enough. Now it’s just right.

They’ll be waking up soon, those kids. They ate all my cookies. I didn’t expect that. College kids are hungry. And greesg and stubborn. And they always break the rules. But they’ll learn their lesson. When the cookies wear off.

I should put more nails in the door.

They shouldn’t have broken my rule. I only had one rule. They shouldn’t have opened my door.

Now they won’t get back out.