the kind who asks you for a little sugar [zimbits neighbors au]
When Jack moved into the plain, white house on Maple Street, he wasn’t expecting much except the peace and quiet he needed to write his next novel. Most of the neighbors were elderly or wrapped up in their young-parent bubble, too busy to notice the quiet, serious man now living in the late Mr. Ripley’s house. And Jack preferred it that way.
Every house on the street seemed a part of the scenery to Jack, weathered and simple with neat yards and the occasional rocking chair or wind chimes on the porches. Every house, that was, but his next door neighbor.
The house to the left of Jack’s was a buttery yellow color, the yard divided between garden and eclectic statues of rabbits and butterflies and other ridiculous things. The mailbox was covered in painted sunflowers and a faded pride flag hung in the window. It made Jack uneasy, knowing his neighbor was probably some overzealous, middle-aged lady who owned several cats and healed her colds with crystals. With one last look at the house and the pie that sat to cool on the windowsill, Jack wrinkled his nose and returned to his own home.