At Least They're Committed

Standing in the middle of the yard, I roll my eyes toward the fence line, peering between my bangs and making no movement with my head. My neighbor is directly on the other side and I don’t want to alert him to my presence if he hasn’t seen me already. Tap water streams from the broken end of the hose and splashes dirt and dusty mud onto my bare ankles.

I don’t want him to start talking to me.

I know what he’d say. “You shouldn’t water your lawn in the middle of the day,” and “Why are you even bothering to water? All you have is weeds.”

Well, I would have said, “I’m not watering the lawn, I’m coloring it. I do rather hate the dull brown of the earth below the weeds, so I’m turning it rich red and chocolate.”

So there.

But he doesn’t say anything.