Handsome Cowboy #10: Armando

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We are lucky. We live on that side of Houston that has trees.

However, this winter their oaky branches began scraping the roof line of our house. Every few days I’d go out there and look up at the high amplitude roof line part of the architecture of no other house on the block but ours and try to convince myself I wasn’t watching roofing granules flying through the air.

My dad had warned me long ago when I was little that roofing granules were integral to houses whose roofs don’t leak.

And let me tell you, I have a bit of obsessive behaviour about leaky houses.


I reported to Silent Bob.

“Can we get someone to cut those limbs off?” I asked as I dragged him outside and pointed up at one that looked like it hovered even more near the satellite dish than it did yesterday. Like a hypochondriac who knows better than to google her latest symptoms, I refrained from requesting confirmation that he too noticed roofing granules leaving their shingles as we stood there.

“I’ll call Armando,” SB said agreeably, and with extraordinary nonchalance, given the