Curvy Cougar Street -

One summer evening, a new family moved into the cul-de-sac at the far end. Their son, a lanky sixteen-year-old named Leo, was tasked with returning a misdelivered package to Number 17. He walked down the street as the sun set, the shadows long and crooked. At Number 17, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a leather jacket over a floral dress answered the door.

She smiled. “That curves are more interesting than straight lines. And that a cougar doesn’t hunt—she waits for something worth her time.” curvy cougar street

That’s what the teenagers called the women who lived there, though never to their faces. The original owners had long since retired to Florida or Arizona, and in their place came a migration of women in their forties and fifties—divorcées, artists, professors, and one retired roller derby coach named Frankie. They had gardens that spilled onto the sidewalk, book clubs that lasted past midnight, and cars that were either vintage Mustangs or practical Subarus with a surprising amount of horsepower. One summer evening, a new family moved into

“What’s that?” Leo asked, nervous. At Number 17, a woman with silver-streaked hair