The Lawn
Drabbles
John looks out of his window. The garden. It’s there, being a garden. And the lawn? The grass is growing like mad.
He goes downstairs to make a brew. Orla is looking out of the kitchen window.
—Lawn needs a cut, she says.
—I’ll get to it.
—It’s dry today.
He’s not daft. That’s how women tell you to do things.
—Yeah, might do it tomorrow, he says.
—It’s forecast to rain.
—Is it?
He checks on the Met Office app. She’s right. He sighs like a deflating tractor tyre.
—I’ll do it now, then.
—Good.
He hauls the mower from the garage. The lawn is a steep hill. The mower moans into life, scaring the birds.
The grass is damp. Uphill is a struggle. The wet clippings jam the mower. He clears the green sludge, empties the bin, and continues the battle, his hands turning green.
He stops mowing. The lawn looks shite—patchy. He unplugs the mower and rinses his alien-green hands outside.
Inside, he scrubs his hands with soap. Orla walks in as he is drying them.
—Put that straight in the wash, she orders.
Outside, there is the smell of cut grass. Inside, John’s shoulders ache.