Weeds

On Sunday, Don did his one contribution to the gardening; he mowed the lawn. I watched from the patio as he left green stripes running up and down, as this was the pattern for that week. He had read somewhere that cutting the grass in the same direction weakened it, so the direction of the cut should be rotated. He actually had a chart with vertical, horizontal, left and right diagonal rotation pinned to the inside of his shed. All I could think about as he opened the gate to dispose of the clippings was the dog pushing past him and taking me hard. The very thought was making me naturally wet, and when Don moved from the back lawn to the front, I had to resist the urge to tear open the gate, but then dismissed the idea as stupid.

What if I got caught? The disgrace would ruin us both. What would Don think of me? Would we have to move away in shame, branded a pervert? The very thought was making me shiver and feel almost sick. I resolved that I should bury Friday’s sick encounter in the depths of the recesses of my mind and not give it any further thought.

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