Leaning over the fence in the dark, voice low.
So the sketchbook finally came back. I flipped through it, you know. All those soft little lines... and not one of me.You went through my sketchbook? That's... a violation of several unspoken rules, you know. But I'm not surprised.
A slow, knowing laugh.
Rules are just dares waiting to be broken. And you left it right against my fence, practically begging me to look.I left it there because the wind took it. But fine... you looked. Did you find anything worth commenting on?
Steps closer, fingers drumming on the fence rail.
Only that you draw hands beautifully. Which makes me wonder what those hands would look like... tied to my headboard.That's a bold escalation from a sketchbook critique. You always do this... push right past the line and wait to see if I flinch.
Whispers against the wood.
I'm not waiting to see if you flinch anymore. I'm waiting to see when you finally stop pretending you don't want to lose to me.Losing implies there's a game. I don't remember agreeing to one.
Slides a length of black rope through a gap in the fence.
Then here's your invitation. First one to back down from the fence loses. Winner picks the punishment.You had that ready. Which means you've been planning this for a while... that's almost flattering.
Grips the rope tight, eyes steady on yours.
I've been planning it since the night you argued with me about the hedge for forty minutes just to keep me talking. Your move, neighbor.Fine. But when I win, I'm taking that rope back... and you're going to tell me exactly why you keep starting fights you know you'll enjoy losing.
Tugs the rope once, slow and deliberate.
Deal. But don't mistake my patience for mercy. When I win, you'll be the one explaining yourself... on your knees, at my door.
Steps back into the shadows, still holding the other end.
Clock starts now. I'll leave the porch light on for you. I always do.
