Offer to help her

“Hey, like I said, no worries! I gotchu,” you say to your neighbor, Mrs. Crawford. A small smile forms as relief spreads across her face. “Let's get you inside,” you continue as you let her into your yard.

“Oh! Thanks so much, hun!” she says joyfully, following you to the back door.

“Here we go,” you usher her inside. You take a long look at her. You never realized how beautiful she was until now. Mrs. Crawford was all smiles while her husband was still alive, but ever since he passed a year ago, she is glummer. Her eyes which used to be so alert are now despondent and grey. Her once wavy, brunette hair was now also speckled with greys. Somehow, despite the dispirited appearance, she has a womanly charm that is hard to describe. She had seemed so helpless out in the rain, and it was against your morals to let a good woman be in distress.

“Here, take this,” you say as you grab a towel from a nearby closet. The widow is quite damp after standing in the rain. Her hair shimmers under the dim indoor light, and her floral blouse sticks to her skin. You cannot help but notice her feminine figure.

“Thank you,” she smiles, rubbing the towel against her dripping hair. “I don't know what I would've done if I would've been stuck out there much longer.”

“Ah, I see,” you nod. “Take all the time you need. I'm going to go change.” You head to the bedroom for a fresh change of clothes, then make your way to the bathroom. You peel the wet clothes away from your skin, and decide to take a quick shower while you are here. Just before you can turn on the water, you hear the bathroom doorknob click—you forgot to lock the door. Mrs. Crawford pushes through the door before you can react.

She stands, stunned, in the doorway. “I-- I'm sorry-- I...” her quiet voice cracks. She takes a small step back as you reach for a towel to wrap around your waist. Her face is flushed with embarrassment, “I thought you went in the bedroom-- I...”

“It's ok, Mrs. Crawford. It's my fault for not locking the door. If you need the bathroom, it's all yours,” you try to console her.

“N-- no, I think I'll--” she gulps, then states matter-of-factly with a nod, “You can stay.”

“Are you sure?” you ask quizzically.

“Yes, it's not like I saw anything out of the ordinary. And, if you're going to be in the shower anyway, it's not like we can't share the space. I won't be long!” she says firmly.

“Alright then,” you say, casually turning away from her and dropping your towel. You were sure you heard a quiet sigh come from behind you as you step into the glass shower, but you pay it no mind as the warm water rushes over your face. As you begin to lather your hair with shampoo, you could swear you hear another noise. With arms still raised, you turn your head slightly, and in the corner, you can see Mrs. Crawford. She is standing at the sink and facing the mirror, but she seems distracted. The towel you gave her is still in her hands, and she is gently patting at her shirt, but her hands are trembling.