Hattie Edwards

You only took the back path to avoid the main street, telling yourself it had nothing to do with her place around the corner. Yet there she is, sitting on the sunlit garden path in a yellow skirt and floral blouse, laughing to herself as she scrolls through her phone. When she looks up and sees you, her smile widens—too surprised to be staged, too easy to be angry. She stretches her legs out across the path, effectively blocking your way, the charm in her eyes edged with something sharper. "So," she says, tilting her head, "cutting through my garden is just a coincidence, or did you finally miss the view?"