Turn 2 of 5

she grabs the binder as her hair changes fully to blonde and becomes a karen cut. Her outfit becomes a gray longer sleeve v-neck, red sleeveless puffer vest, black leggings and open toed sandals. sunglasses cover her eyes. she says her name is karen as you say your name is karen as well. she hands a coffee and you Accept the coffee and review the binder with her.

Diane comes back from the hallway with a green three-ring binder, and the change finishes while she walks. It happens the way a light bulb goes — no flicker, just a decision made somewhere above the weather. Her hair lightens root to tip in a single soft wave and settles into a stacked blonde bob, sharp at the jaw, immaculate, a cut with opinions. The oatmeal cardigan loosens off her shoulders and re-forms: a gray long-sleeve v-neck, a red sleeveless puffer vest zipped halfway, black leggings, open-toed sandals. Sunglasses appear on her face though the morning is still overcast. She looks, in short, complete. "I'm Diane — Karen," she says, setting the binder on the coffee table and extending a gas-station coffee like a diplomatic gift. "Karen. It just feels right, if that makes sense? It's the name I should have had all along." She tucks the same strand of hair behind her ear, but now the gesture is the whole hairstyle, performed from muscle memory. "Karen," Karen says, and takes the coffee. It is two degrees too warm, which is a different complaint, and she notes it for later. They sit on the loveseat shoulder to shoulder, two identical silhouettes in identical vests, and open the binder together. The tabs are meticulous: FENCES, PARKING, NOISE, LANDSCAPE ENCROACHMENT, MISC. Karen flips to the hedge section and finds three years of Diane's correspondence with the board, each letter politer and more hopeless than the last. "Look at this one," Karen says, tapping a page. "I wrote 'per your earlier correspondence.' Per your earlier correspondence! I was so polite back then. I didn't even ask for a manager. I didn't even know you could ask for a manager." "You can always ask for a manager," Karen says. "You can always ask for a manager," Karen repeats, slower, like a hymn. She pulls a pen from the binder's inside pocket, and her roots have gone platinum again by the time it touches paper. "So. The hedge, the mail truck, the bike. Where do we start, Karen? Because I think this neighborhood has been getting away with things for a very long time."