My husband pauses on one leg, briefcase in hand, and glares down his heron’s beak nose.
‘Grass needs cutting,’ he says.
I follow his eye, and look. The grass is lush; a riotous spread of ripe seed-heads, ribwort and dandelions swaying as pouting, blowsy poppies scorn his expected order. And I look beyond, to the bottom of the garden where Lev is working on the patio, laying each slab with the same loving care he takes when he lays me down in the long wild grass, and parts my luscious thighs. The cool grass against my naked flesh, the primal earth’s scent in my nose; he’s been reminding me how it feels to be alive. But he’s nearly done here. Later he will be gone. And then I will cut the grass.
I smile to myself, and say ‘yes dear.’