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Undaunted, I open a new browser tab and sign into ChatGPT.

Having exhausted my own mental resources, I set it to brainstorming pranks to pull on your neighbor.

It seems I am only capable of assisted fun.

ChatGPT chides me for my ill intentions and reluctantly lists twenty harmless pranks.

It admonishes me to help clean up afterward and avoid triggering any of my neighbor’s phobias. ChatGPT is Team Ozzy.

I give up on computer-assisted mayhem and instead climb over the half wall that separates my space from Ozzy’s. It’s the work of a moment to steal the key from his stupid key frog. He’s practically inviting me in.

I skulk across the hall, open his door, and slink inside.

Shit. What if he has a doorbell cam? Or some kind of high-tech security system to protect his surfing trophies?

Since it’s too late to back out—perhaps I can pretend temporary amnesia and/or confusion about which door is mine?

—I look for something to rearrange. ChatGPT advised incremental, daily changes as prank worthy, but my nerves demand this be a one and done.

Ozzy’s condo is unexpected. A solitary black-and-white photo of the Hawaiian state bird hangs on the wall.

My banana gift lives on in a box on the counter, attracting fruit flies.

Instead of a potted plant or a chair, he’s decorated with a set of weights.

A pile of black nylon gear bags and a tangle of tripods.

A television screen NASA would envy. Some surfing stuff.

Since invading his bathroom is a step too far, I settle for rearranging his collection of surfboards.

They lean against the wall in a surprisingly orderly line.

Who knew one man could own so many? Long, longer, thick, broad—that one might be a boogie board—orange with white stripes, yellow with Hawaiian flowers, a Day-Glo blue.

Pink palm trees, because Ozzy is not constrained by vegetation found in nature.

He’s compensating for something. Or he’s easily bored.

When I tug on the closest board, it’s like nautical Jenga and the entire row shifts, careening toward me, listing, making an ungodly racket.

He’s definitely going to know I was here.

I shove everything back upright as best I can, reordering as I go.

It seems insufficient. Boring. I could…wrap them in cling wrap?

I calculate the amount of plastic product that will be required, add in the same-day delivery fees, and decide to opt for something more cost-effective.

The Ozzy dot is still at the San Francisco wharf.

Unless he’s invented a teleporter or grown wings, I have time.

I watch his dot skitter back and forth, and for a moment I can see the happy, fish-filled scene in my head.

He’s just so good with people. Kids. Dogs.

Probably with random seagulls and trash pandas, too.

He’s the opposite of me. No one’s ever forgotten who he is.

I imagine a spotlight shining down on him as he leads his mini fan club through the aquatic exhibits.

A ray of golden sunshine. A divine finger pointing at him from on high: this is my chosen one.

It’s very motivational. I must win our war.

I scoot back into my condo and retrieve my lipstick. It’s a singular, solitary tube that rattles around my empty makeup drawer because I’ve never bothered to learn what to do with cosmetics. Rosy pink? Optimistically named Tease? Two of the reasons I’ve never used it. Today is a day for firsts.

I recheck Ozzy’s dot—still lecturing his charges on the joys of the ocean—and dart back into his condo. I unsheathe my lipstick and draw a smiley face on each board.

Take that, Ozzy Wylder.

I wake up much, much later, face glued to my laptop keyboard. Ozzy has texted me at some point between sundown and dark o’clock. I didn’t know you liked makeup!

He accompanies this with a picture of a double-crested cormorant. The bird’s feathers are tufts on either side of its head, ruffled, untamed.

Let’s do ours together. Pandora? PANDORA! PANDOOOOORA!

He’s a cute puppy. The dryer sheet that clings to me. A burr whose barbs have hooked into my leg.

And five minutes later: Dora?

Followed by: Don’t make me come over there.

I text back, Wrong number , before I fall asleep for real.

When I head into the office on Tuesday morning, he’s left a message for me. It’s written in shaving cream, the letters dripping down my door: THIS MEANS WAR.

Maybe.

His manly shaving cream isn’t stiff enough to hold its form. It drips. It flops. He should do something about that because it’s possible he’s just invited me over for tea.

As if. I consider defacing his door, but I’m short on time.

Fortunately, I’m well prepared and an engineer.

It’s the work of seconds to set up my glitter bomb.

It’s a simple pull tab release, the string tied around his doorknob.

As soon as he opens the door, the string will go taut and BOOM . Glitterpalooza.

Ozzy will remember me with each tiny, shiny speck.