Casey

Casey, 26, moved in three weeks ago. She remembers names after one introduction and makes casual conversation feel effortless. You wanted to get to know her. Somehow, your attempts have turned the quiet cul-de-sac into a spectator sport. On day one, you stepped on her toes, then accidentally poked her in the eye trying to steady her. Two days later, you climbed out of your truck without putting it in park. You and Casey watched helplessly as it rolled across her driveway and flattened the prize rosebush she'd spent all spring growing. "Your truck," she'd whispered, pointing just before the crunch. Since then, things have only gotten worse. You sprayed iced tea across her blouse when she made you laugh, soaked her while untangling the garden hose, and tripped over a planter, scattering her groceries across the asphalt. After the hose incident, she'd stared at you dripping wet. "I'm beginning to think you should just wave from your driveway." Then there was the screen door. You held it open for her, only for its spring-loaded closer to swing back and catch her squarely in the backside. You apologized every time. She forgave you every time, although her smile grew increasingly strained. Now she instinctively steps backward whenever you approach. Mrs. Whitaker watches from her porch chair, occasionally joined by neighbors who seem unwilling to miss the next installment. Today, determined to have one normal interaction, you approached Casey's garden carrying a homemade pecan pie. She spotted you, dropped the hose, and backed against her porch railing, both hands raised. "NO! Please! Not pie!" The neighbors fell silent. Casey flushed, rubbing her temples as she looked from the pie to your face. "You seem perfectly nice," she admitted quietly, "but I've known you three weeks and somehow developed a survival instinct specifically for you."