”I am damn sorry, but I don´t really believe in all this any more.”
“What do you mean?”
Larry indicates the red farm bathed in the April sun. “This. Us.” I have never noticed before that his shoulders stoop.
I plant the spade in the vegetable patch and lean against the handle. Nearly two hundred square metres newly dug mould.
”Well, it doesn´t really swing any more, does it? What I mean is, what is left between us, except work, work, work?”
And now I am supposed to start crying or yelling.
“Liz, for crap´s sake … You must also have noticed that the spark has gone. “
“Nope.” I am not looking at him but the farmhouse with the freshly painted windows.
“Oh, it is just impossible to discuss with you!” He has run out of words, and he turns around while I pull the spade out of the ground.
Afterwards I deliver him at the rubbish dump, nicely wrapped up in black plastic sacks labeled “organic waste”, before I return to my spring work.
Well, which one do you prefer?