The Homeowner heard the fence shake before he saw the woman.
At first, he assumed it was wind.
The afternoon was hot, bright, and almost perfectly still, but one loose section of the old wooden privacy fence sometimes moved when a branch pressed against it.
He was standing beside the swimming pool with a garden hose in one hand, rinsing dirt from the concrete after trimming the hedges.
Then came another sound.
Wood scraping.
A grunt.
Something hit the top rail.
The Homeowner turned.
Two hands appeared above the fence.
Then a wide straw hat.
Then the furious face of the Neighbor Woman.
For one second, he simply stared.
She pulled herself higher, one leg swinging awkwardly over the top.
Bright pink sleeveless shirt.
Khaki shorts.
Expensive sandals completely inappropriate for climbing fences.
Sunglasses pushed into her blonde hair.
She looked less like someone entering a backyard and more like someone trying to escape a badly planned burglary.
The Homeowner dropped the hose.
“What are you doing?”
The Neighbor Woman ignored him.
She managed to get one leg over.
Then the other.
The fence shook beneath her weight.
“Stop.”
She looked down.
“You could have answered your phone.”
The Homeowner stared.
“That does not explain why you are climbing my fence.”
She lowered herself awkwardly.
Her sandal slipped.
For a second, she nearly fell backward.
She caught the top board and cursed.
The Homeowner did not approach.
He had learned something about this woman during the six months since she moved into the house behind his.
Helping her could somehow become evidence that he had caused whatever problem she created.
So he stayed where he was.
The Neighbor Woman dropped onto the grass.
She straightened her shirt.
Adjusted the hat.
Then walked toward him as though entering his fenced backyard without permission had been the most ordinary thing in the world.
The Homeowner pointed toward the side gate.
“Leave.”
“No.”
He almost laughed.
“No?”
“We need to discuss your pool.”
“My pool?”
“Yes.”
The Homeowner looked toward the blue water.
Nothing unusual.
Clean.
Quiet.
Entirely inside his property.
“What about it?”
The Neighbor Woman stopped three feet from him.
“You ran the pump after ten last night.”
The Homeowner stared.
“Yes.”
“That violates quiet hours.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“According to who?”
“The neighborhood standards.”
The Homeowner folded his arms.
“We do not have an HOA.”
The Neighbor Woman’s expression tightened.
“That doesn’t mean we don’t have standards.”
He laughed once.
She did not.
The Homeowner had already dealt with several versions of this conversation.
The first happened when she complained that his garbage cans remained near the side of the house for two hours after collection.
The second involved his nephew’s pickup being parked in the driveway.
Then Christmas lights.
Then the color of his patio umbrella.
Then the fact that a contractor worked on his roof before eight in the morning.
Every time, the Neighbor Woman spoke as though some invisible committee had granted her authority over the block.
There was no committee.
No association.
No elected board.
No covenant giving her power over anyone.
There was only the Neighbor Woman.
And apparently, in her mind, that was enough.
The Homeowner pointed toward the fence.
“We already talked about this.”
“No.”
“You talked.”
“I told you I’m not interested.”