Wednesday, July 14, 2010

From View to You

Ack!  I've done it again.  I'm too late to post on Magpie Tales, but I'll go ahead and post this bit of fiction anyhow. 

You’ve always had a lush garden crisp with fresh greens and juicy with red tomatoes. I’ve watched from my kitchen window as you toiled under the hot sun, a baseball cap covering your sandy blonde hair and protecting your blue eyes. You never did look right in a garden, to me. You belonged on a baseball field pitching balls at Autobahn speed or in an Armani suit in a gleaming high rise on Wall Street, but then if you’d been there you wouldn’t be here, a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Every morning you’d turn on a hose dripping water into the garden. I was disappointed that you didn’t use a sprinkler so I could see the tiny rainbows that move back and forth with the spouting water, but you know best when it comes to growing things.

You have a hole in your fence. Did you know that? It’s rather large and once I peeked through it to get a better look at your yard and you, too. You took your shirt off that day and I could see the fine, muscular outline of your back as you worked. The sheen of sweat that glistened in drops on your tanned skin made me bite my lip until it bled. At one point you removed your cap, wiped a dirty hand across your forehead leaving a brown smear that marred my image of you. That’s when I stopped looking and went back inside.

Hey, I think it’s really nice that you grow flowers, too. I like flowers, especially those big red ones. You know the ones with the shaggy heads that smell like mint? I guess I’ve given away my secret now. Yep, sometimes I walk in your garden; usually when you’re gone in the evening. Once I went in during the day. Yes, indeedy, I just walked right up to the gate and let myself in. You sure do like pretty plants, but you really should have tore out that nasty rose with the long thorns. It grabbed my shirt, ripped it and left a nasty scratch on my arm. I’m sorry I had to take sharp loppers to it. It sure was a shame seeing all those beautiful, decapitated rose heads lying on the ground like globs of coagulated blood, but it won’t hurt people now.

Hmm...just look at that big bowl of tomatoes. There’s yellow ones, pink ones, and red ones all on one stem. Why did you pick them before they were ripe? Well some are ripe. This one is delicious and just look the juice is running down my chin. You must think I’m terribly uncouth with no manners at all, wiping the juicy stream from my face and licking my fingers.

You know? I could have lived next to you forever just enjoying the view from my kitchen window, taking secret walks in your garden when you weren’t around, just had to ruin everything. You spoiled it all when you allowed her into your garden. I was furious when I looked out my window. I had to get my binoculars to get a closer view and there she was, prancing around, like the skinny whore she is, in a stupid yellow dress all sunny and cute. Who ever thought you’d go for a red head? I figured you a blonde sort of lover.

I really hope you enjoyed the tomato juice I made for you.  I even used big, juicy, red tomatoes fresh from your garden. Well, it won’t be much longer now...I’ll go home soon.


Kiki said...

Yay...fabulous read..! THanks for sharing your magic..hope you are having a great day!

Teresa O said...

Thanks for reading, Kiki! And you're welcome, too.

Anonymous said...

A fascinating, beautifully crafted tale!

Teresa O said...

ewix...Thank you for stopping by and for your thoughtful comment.

Aurora said...

Yikesd - did I misread this - or is this a bunny boiling stalker tale?!?

It creeped me out at the same time it had me fascinated!

And men who garden can be sexy.

Teresa O said...

Hahaha!!! You make me laugh, Aurora. Yep, except this one is a tomato stealing, questionable juice making stalker. If it creeped you out, then I achieved my goal.

Oh yeahhh... men who garden are way sexy.

Brian Miller said...

oh that was delightfully wicked...note to self...fix hole in

reberto.alberto said...
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