“Gotta dig up the foundation wall,” the contractor said, chewing a toothpick. “But your property line and Mrs. Gable’s… well, that big plastic marble of hers is right over your footer’s drainage field. Can’t get the equipment in.”
His neighbor, Mrs. Gable, had a different philosophy. She believed a house should express the soul. Her soul, apparently, was a sphere. For six months, she’d had a crew constructing what the town zoning board officially called a “non-standard geodesic habitation unit” and everyone else called The Bubble.
“Mr. Pindle,” she said, peering at the Bubble. “You claim this structure is interfering with a necessary repair to your home’s foundation?”
“I’ve given you a negotiation,” she said, smiling softly. “You’ve just chosen to see it as a threat.”
He stomped back to his cube. That night, he drafted a letter. The next day, he filed a motion with the town. Mrs. Gable, in turn, filed a counter-motion claiming harassment. The Mill River Gazette ran the headline: BUBBLE VS. BOX: NEIGHBORS AT WAR.
She stared at him. Then she laughed—a real, full laugh that echoed off the Bubble’s curved wall. “You want to put a straight line through the center of my perfect curve.”