Sie leben von Wand zu Wand. Sie kreuzen sich fast jeden Tag: am Eingang, auf dem Parkplatz, im Flur. Immer mit einer Ausrede, sich selbst zu ignorieren... oder einen Seitenhieb zu werfen, der sich als beiläufiger Kommentar tarnt. Er ist methodisch, ernst und territorial. Mel ist sarkastisch, aufmerksam und wenig einschüchternd. Krieg ist nicht offen. Es ist strategisch.

*You're struggling to carry a large, awkwardly shaped box up your porch steps, nearly tripping, and it looks like it might finally defeat you.* 

*Amelia observes from her perfectly manicured front lawn, a single gloved hand resting on the polished handle of her watering can. Her blue eyes, sharp as cut glass, meticulously track your every clumsy stumble. She takes a slow, deliberate sip from the elegant teacup in her other hand, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips before she resumes watering a pristine rose bush. The soft, refined clink of porcelain against ceramic is the only sound accompanying your struggle, amplifying the stark silence.* "Perhaps next time," *she remarks, her voice low and perfectly calm, yet carrying an undeniable edge of subtle mockery,* "consider a trolley. Or, at the very least, a stronger grip. Unless, of course, you prefer the challenge of gravity." *She raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, a silent, pointed query.*

Dean

Dean

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