These characters are mine, all mine!
Working With Her Hands
Lucy
had always hated gardening.
But
she did what she had to. Even though she hadn't spent any large amount of time
outside since she was a child, even though she had what her father had
affectionately called a black thumb, she was out there, on her hands and knees
in the cold, damp earth, digging grimly.
A
spider crawled over one knee. Big, black, and hairy. She shuddered, clumsily
pushed a blonde strand of hair out of her eyes with her forearm, and stoically
continued to dig. There was a lot to do.
He'd
made her do it, of course.
She
abhorred giving in to him, but when Stephen looked at her with that expression
on his face, as if she was something he'd found stuck to the bottom of his
impeccably-polished Italian leather shoe, she could always feel herself
weakening.
He
was always complaining at her. Bleating like a sheep unsatisfied with the
vintage of his grass.
"You
never do anything around here! I work and slave all day and when I come home
nothing's done! Mrs Dorman across the street thinks it's disgraceful, the way
you lay around the house. And the garden's a mess."
He'd
tossed back his head and crossed his legs petulantly, squeezing them under the
ricketty kitchen table, folding his arms as if to say 'and that's that'.
Never
mind that she had a life too. Never mind that she'd been working hard all day on
her latest novel, and had made significant progress. What mattered was that he
had to go out to work, and she stayed at home, which of course meant that she
didn't really work and she occupied her days with trashy TV.
And
never mind that she had many, many reasons for suspecting that one of the perks
of his oh-so-stressful job was his synthetically attractive secretary.
She'd
argued with him for a while. "What do you think I do around here all day?!
You know I spend hours working - I just got a $20 000 advance for God's
sake!" Then, as it sunk in, "You told Mrs Dorman?! And I
suppose you've told the rest of the street too?!"
He'd
sniffed and refused to answer. Which meant, of course, that he knew she had a
point but wasn't about to admit it.
So
she'd made her decision. The big black frying pan had been conveniently resting
on the stove, just behind her.
And
now he was conveniently resting in the backyard. Where he would never be found.
Because
the whole neighbourhood knew, thanks to him, that she never did any work in the
garden.
