Yard Work

The cold bottle felt good in his hands. It felt right. A man can only do so much work on a Saturday, he told himself. Looking over the backyard, his gaze lingered on the new shrubs he’d put in along the fence. He drank, savouring the beer. Rolling it on his tongue.

He ducked back inside, making sure his wife was really gone, then pulled a book from the shelf and opened it, and took the pack of cigarettes hidden in the hollowed-out pages.

On his way back outside, he grabbed another beer, and then smoked, sweated and enjoyed himself.


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