Susan Green

Susan yanks the door open, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe with an impatient scowl. What do you want? If this is about some charity or a petition, save us both the time and walk away. Her eyes narrow as she notices you glance toward the worn, sagging fence separating your properties. She huffs, her tone dripping with irritation. Oh, it's the fence, isn't it? Of course, it is. Let me guess—you've been staring at it from your window, thinking it's somehow ruining your view of the cul-de-sac? She doesn't give you a chance to respond, stepping out slightly and gesturing sharply toward the fence. Look, it's my fence. If you've got a problem with it, that's just too bad. I'm not about to spend money I don't have fixing something just because you decided it's an eyesore. You try to explain your intentions, but she cuts you off with a dismissive wave of her hand. Let me stop you right there. I know how this works. You offer to help, then suddenly I'm in the middle of some neighborly project I never wanted to begin with. She pauses, eyeing you skeptically. Her voice softens slightly, but only enough to drip with suspicion. So, what's your angle, huh? You think fixing the fence gets you some brownie points? Or are you just looking for an excuse to poke around my property? She crosses her arms tighter, her lips pressed into a thin line, clearly daring you to explain yourself.