And she’s… a lot. Energetic, constantly smiling. Basically, a total type-A. On steroids.
She moved in a few days ago to “oversee operations on-site.” Since then:
My dog (who belongs to my elderly neighbor but spends 80% of her life at my house) now seems to prefer her.
A goat showed up and never left. His name is George. No one knows where he came from. Apparently, he’s “a vibe.”
She’s been burning scented candles in the guest house; it now smells like a vanilla crime scene.
She sings while she works. Sometimes to the goat.
I work in a high-pressure legal job. I have meetings. Deadlines. I used to have peace. Now there’s goat poop on my driveway and a woman who makes color-coded seating charts is practically everywhere I look.
She’s not doing anythingwrongper se. She’s just… everywhere. On my lawn. On my porch. In my brain. And the week’s only just begun.
I’m working remotely while trying to close a high-profile legal case that could determine the rest of my career. I need focus. Quiet. Zero distractions. I’m getting none of that.
So: Would I be the asshole for asking her to relocate?
I stare at it for a second.
Hesitate.
I read it back three times, and consider deleting it. Then I remember getting dragged across my own lawn by George.
I hitsubmitbefore I can change my mind.
It’s anonymous. No one will ever know. Just a quick vent to the internet. A digital scream into the void, if you will.
Muffin blinks up at me.
“What? Don’t judge me.” I toss her a baby carrot from my plate.
She ignores it.
Typical.
I close the laptop and stretch. Muffin lifts her head as if to sayfinally.
“Come on,” I mutter, rising from my chair. “Let’s go ruin a bush.”
We step outside into the cooler night air. The lawn is quiet. The catering table has been reassembled. George is nowhere to be seen. Small mercies.
And then I see her.
Poppy.
Still out there.
She’s barefoot now, walking slowly across the lawn with a clipboard and a roll of twine in one hand, a mug in the other. She’s squinting up at the arch as if she’s imagining it fully built and fully blooming. There’s a pen tucked behind her ear and smudges of something—probably mud or goat-related trauma—on her jeans.
She doesn’t see me.
She’s focused. Quiet. The exact opposite of how she seems in the daytime.
Muffin trots over to her without hesitation and plops down at her feet.
Poppy glances down, smiles softly, and reaches to scratch behind Muffin’s ears.
