temperatures had brought a hot rain, and dark rain clouds lowered overhead. ‘Look,’ he said, exhausted. ‘I’m just asking you to think about it, OK?’ ‘Dear, there’s nothing to think about. You’re worked up over nothing.’ She returned to her book. A long pause ensued. The tick of the antique grandfather clock could be heard. Abruptly, he took his leave, and what remained of a bottle of scotch from the counter. As he departed, he sent an exquisite porcelain plate to the floor with his palm, accidentally, and it split in two. He had wandered into the garden, his garden, in which, as a newcomer to married life, he had taken such pride, finding time to care for it. He searched for the apple tree that he had once watched flourish,now imprisoned behind a dense, invasive display of decorative foliage that had been planted by the gardener his wife had hired. He attempted to release the tree from its bars, dropping the bottle of scotch to the ground as he did so. Rays of late afternoon sun shone through a sudden break in the dark clouds. As he pulled away the last of the plants, revealing their hidden secret, he caught glimpses of life: water-spattered apples reflected the light in glorious flashes of crimson, and a gentle scent of apple flower teased the furthest reaches of his sensory realms. His eyes glistened as he plucked an apple from its nest amongst the rich green leaves and ate. He felt suddenly clear: he knew what was to be done and he no longer cared what it took. He was * * *
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