By Clyde Liffey

After completing the yard work, he showered and sat in the chaise beneath the leafy tree.  At last he could drink his spiked limeade and read his novel, alternating between Weltschmerz and Schadenfreude. The back door opened; his boy, chocolate stain round still wet lips, toddled toward him. His wife, freckled voluptuous thighs exposed, leaned in the doorway.  Putting down his slim heavy volume, he looked up at the child, smile fixed in a rictus of misunderstanding.  “What now?”

2 thoughts on “Pastoral

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