âYou know, Sean, when I asked you if you were into, and knew anything about gardening, that wasnât a condition on whether you could come over or not,â Laurel remarked, tone and eyebrows high in incredulity with eyes fixed onto his crouch and the confusion caught between his eyebrows.Â
She took a couple of steps and knelt down beside him. Her thickly-gloved hands fanned in gesturing for his attention.Â
âHere, look, let me show you...â She reached around him, grappled the big plant by its stalk and uprooted the weed in a swift tug. She swiveled slightly and deposited the contents in the half-full wheelbarrow waiting nearby. On turning back to him, she smiled towards the cleavers between his fingers. âYou need to just yank those up. You had better chance of severing your fingers than any weeds. Speaking of,â She plucked a spare pair of gardening gloves from the soft grassy ground and wriggled them before him, âplease put these on?â It wasnât her first beg of the subject and she supposed it would also end in vain as all of her others, though her meticulous way made her persist. âI know you think itâs stupid but I swear to God Iâm not driving you to ER because you thought you were tougher than a cleaver.âÂ
They were in her garden, a joy of hers known only to some - its presence a physical representation of dedication and beauty that also granted her breaths of peace. She had scheduled a few hours here today (relaxation always on a timetable), and Sean had wanted to see her. (The want mutual, of course, though carefully expressed now and then).Â

















