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“Who’s that lass there?” Tom asked.

Phyllis glanced up from her knitting. “Pardon?”

“That girl, there, going to visit Paul.”

A young woman stood on the next door neighbor’s door step carrying a stack of plastic containers.

“That’s Sylvia, dear,” Phyllis said. “She comes by once a week to bring him food.”

“Oh.” Tom returned to the paper to search for football scores. Blackburn was doing terribly this year, so he’d pinned his hopes on Arsenal taking Man U down in the next match.

“Pardon me.”

Phyllis and Tom both looked up and saw Sylvia standing on the edge of their lawn.

“Hello - my name is Sylvia, and Paul’s one of my coworkers. I brought him some supper, but he’s not answering his door. I was wondering if you could just give this to him when he gets home.” She held out the stack of tupperware.

Phyllis set down her knitting and accepted the boxes from her. “Of course, dear. Do you know Paul well?”

“Well enough. He’s lonely is all.” Sylvia smiled, and Phyllis thought to herself that Sylvia was a very lovely girl to be spending time with a sourpuss like Paul.

“He’s a bit of a loud neighbor at times,” Tom grumbled from behind the paper. “Comes home every night and listens to an hour of opera. Like bloody clockwork, it is. Always the same bloke singing, too. You’d think he’d tire of the stuff.”

Phyllis flapped an impatient hand at her husband. “Don’t mind him. I enjoy opera, and I’m glad Paul is willing to share.”

Sylvia looked puzzled for a moment, but then she laughed softly. “Oh, no, Paul doesn’t listen to opera. He doesn’t have a radio or victrola or anything.”

It was Phyllis’s turn to look puzzled. “Then it must be Mrs. Barnham next door. She must turn it up very loud - she’s nearly deaf, the poor dear.”

Sylvia’s smile was enigmatic. “Perhaps it is Mrs. Barnham. Or perhaps Paul simply likes to sing.” And she walked away.

It wasn’t until Paul returned home later that evening and Nessun Dorma echoed from his open window did Phyllis realize what Sylvia had meant.

(359 words)