Confrontation Across the Boxwood Hedge

Daniel rolled the gray trash cans down to the curb before the sun got high. Across the low boxwood hedge, Karen was watering a pot of red geraniums with a garden hose. She wore white capris and oversized sunglasses that reflected the morning light.

He stopped at the edge of his asphalt, ten feet from where her SUV usually backed in.

“Karen,” he said.

She didn’t turn around right away. She let the spray hit the dirt for another three seconds before squeezing the nozzle shut. “Morning, Daniel.”

“We need to talk about my outdoor receptacle,” Daniel said. He kept his hands in his pockets. “I checked my camera footage from Thursday night. And Tuesday night. You were over here at two in the morning.”

Karen folded her arms, the green nozzle hanging from her right hand. “Are you serious? It’s a few cents of electricity, Daniel. My home line was glitching.”

“It’s not the money,” Daniel said. He looked from her sandals to the receptacle on his wall, then back to her face. “You walked onto my property in the middle of the night without asking. That’s four times this month.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose with one finger and laughed, a short, dry snap. “Right. The crime of the century. I’m your neighbor. People help each other out. If Susan needed a cup of sugar, I wouldn’t lock the door.”

“A cup of sugar isn’t twenty feet of cord plugged into my house while I’m asleep,” Daniel said.

Karen shifted her weight, her chin lifting. “So you’re watching me now? You set up a camera just to spy on my car?”

“The camera sits on my garage wall to watch my own door,” Daniel said. His voice stayed level. “It caught you because you walked onto my property.”

“This is crazy,” she said. She turned toward her front porch, her heel clicking on the concrete walkway. “You’re turning nothing into a federal case. Wait until the rest of the street hears how you spy on women at night.”