The Water Bearer

I said the neighborhood was mostly brown, but that wasn't all true. Jim’s yard was the exception. It was a dazzling green jewel amidst the rough. The grass was lush and thick in his yard, flower beds burst with unexpected color, and he had planted trees--real trees, taller than a man as a tree should be--and they provided the only pools of shade on the entire street.

Jim spent about an hour every morning when the sun was cool watering his plants, pruning, mowing with an ancient push mower, clipping this and clearing that. Then, he'd disappear into his house.

It was on a Friday, as I recall. I had just closed a pretty good sale and phoned Sarah to tell her to start the grill. I picked up a couple of expensive steaks and a good bottle of wine, and we were going to celebrate.

I swept into the house, kissed Sarah and little Billie, then took my station out in the backyard to grill dinner. A few beers before, some wine with dinner, and we were pretty loose.

Sarah and I were still making up for lost time, and we didn’t even try to make it back to our bed. We turned off the lights, fumbled with buttons and hooks and belts, and I pulled her to me there on the living room couch.

When I awoke, I was confused for a moment, uncertain of where I was. I didn’t move for fear of a bullet. After a minute, I decided I was home.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)