Me Pushing the Mower and You Doing Calligraphy
If he hadn't existed, she would have invented him —
[A little bonbon for y’all.]
About to lace up my boots, gas up my lawnmower, tie knots in my skirt to get it up out of the way, and get to it.
Every two weeks as I muscle the rattletrap push mower up and down the hill and make a new assault on the feral mimosa trees — always giving them more territory, because I love them — I imagine my beautiful Master in his lawn chair, let’s give him an 18th-century costume, big shirt, maybe a little powder on hair or face — working on his calligraphy or embroidery in the shade, something dainty, something I could never do.
He glances up. By comparison to him I'm sweaty, clumsy, and have a streak of engine oil on my thigh.
He guesses I might do.