french doors

"Let me help you."
I was wrestling with the broken French door I had managed to single handedly wrest from under the house and heave into the truck. It was at its final destination: the construction debris dumpster at the town dump. I had backed the truck up so that it was a mere yard or so into the bin. Piece of cake.
But then I looked up. The man who had offered to help me was extremely handsome. He seemed to know it, too. And he had an accent. I'm a sucker for accents. I went all girlie as he threw the door into the bin.
We watched it smash.
"Hope you didn't want that," he said. "French doors are ridiculous on this island."
"But they're pretty," I said. "I'm going to put more in."
"I tell all my people out here to use fiberglass. Paint 'em up and you can't tell the difference."
"I would know," I said, thinking, yuk, fiberglass.
He flashed me a smile and I climbed into the truck. Bemused, I drove all the way home before remembering that I had neither weighed out nor paid at the dump. I had to go back. But he was gone.
I have two new sets of French doors to put in.
Maybe I should reconsider fiberglass.