“That’s it. I’m not gardening any more.”
She looked up from her crossword. “Why on earth not?” She was under no illusion that he loved gardening more than he loved her.
“Because the foliage is furious.”
She lowered the newspaper. Peered over her glasses. “What do you mean the foliage Is furious?”
“Exactly what I said. It didn’t want to be trimmed. I trimmed it. And now it’s furious.”
Her mind raced with thoughts of dementia. A future of Alzheimer’s. A slow decline. “I’m sure it doesn’t really mind dear.”
He shook his head. Something scratched at the window.
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