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Why? Why is she the image of my dream girl when she’s so mean?

It’s not fair.

“Is that your neighbor? The loud one?”

I nod.

“She has great hair,” she says. “Sorry, it feels like I’m not supposed to say anything nice, but that’s the first thing that came to mind.”

“It is great,” I admit. I can’t fault her for mentioning the obvious, not when I’ve thought the same thing so many times.

“What’s that smell?”

I jump what feels like a few feet into the air at the sudden sound of that voice. She’s sitting across from me at the little table, and I didn’t even realize she’d shown up at all.

“Where the hell did you come from?”

I saw her go inside earlier, and her car was still here when I got back from dropping off my daughter. Maybe I somehow missed the sound of her leaving again, but I usually don’t.

I’m usually listening.

“Nowhere that’s your business,” she says.

“You really are a ghost,” I whisper, more to myself.

“Still with that?”

“Snickerdoodles.”

“What?”

“The smell,” I answer. “I made snickerdoodles.”

“What brand?”

“Brand? No, Imadethem. Like, from scratch.”

She hums like that evokes some real thinking on her end.

“Is your daughter home?” she asks.

“No?”

“You should get me one.”

“What does—nevermind.” I shake my head, confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t spend hours baking those just to hand them off to the enemy.”

I watch her mouth pull up at the corners.

“‘The enemy.’That has a nice sound to it.”

“I bet it does,” I say.

“I could play nice for a night if you gave me a cookie.”