The exercise:
Write about: the blend.
We managed to get the vast majority of our tomato plants into the garden this morning, despite the threat of (and brief periods of actual) rain. The remaining plants were late seedings, so they need a little more time to size up before they join their compatriots.
It's definitely been a Vancouver kind of day, grey and wet. At least it's an exception here; the sun's meant to return either tomorrow or Wednesday.
Until then... I'm feeling like writing. We'll see if anything comes of it.
Mine:
The question is growing tired, having hung in the air unanswered for too long. I see this but make no move to rescue it. Instead I work the remote, flipping through channels faster than strictly necessary.
Nothing but commercials. They blend together until the underwear model is ordering pizza while the insurance broker shaves with the newest razor on the market.
My brain accepts the story my eyes are weaving for its benefit. No need to second guess or question.
Speaking of questions, there it comes again, more insistent this time. I suppose she's losing patience with my silence. Or maybe she just couldn't stand watching the poor bastard suffer, seeing it losing its grip in the space between us.
She's always cared a little too much for my liking.
