We are working in the yard, just you me and the dog. The yard is more hillbilly than urban sophisticate, mostly we are just trying to keep the burdock, weeds and pollen from taking over.

I pull the prickly burdock up by its scrawny roots and in turn it attacks my clothes, skin and hair.

You laugh with garbled words mixed in. Before I even ask, you start to pull the seedpods from my hair. Yanking, I feel your strong grip making my head bob. It occurs to me that is how it has always been, you pulling my head from side to side, up and down, turning my brains to pudding.

I watch as you flutter away now concerned with the purple lilacs and lily of the valley’s. You gently hold them in your hands, inhaling  the aroma. I wonder if perhaps I should wear lily of the valley cologne, but dismiss the idea quickly. I go back to the chore at hand, my pile is now quite high. I light a match and watch as the sticky pricks, become harmless pieces of dust. I yell to you to take notice of my accomplishment. You nod nonchalantly, as you pet the dog, a mere mutt, with a nasty habit of eating aluminum foil. I wonder how you can stand to smell his pungent  mutt breath, as he licks your face like the first meal he has had in a long time. I yearn to be him and lick your face with love, leaving trails on your china-white skin, marking my way to other destinations. For a moment I just stand there staring at your small feet afraid to look in your eyes.

You yell to me something about blackberry briars needing trimming. I take a deep breath, burdock is one thing but briars are an evil entity. There was a time when you would go right into the patch with me, side by side we would attack as angry thorns ripped our skin to shreds.  You look at me with your two round blue eyes, reflecting the patch back at me, a cloud flows across your iris, I sigh, then prepare to get on with the job. In three steps I’m into the thick of things. My skin is already stinging from the scratches. You look at me through the prison bars of living plants. You remark on how much the landscape has improved, then ask if I’m alright. Your eyes tell me you don’t want to hear the truth. So I lie. Still I wonder if you’ve ever guessed, its not the labor of my work that stings my eyes, not the oozing blood seeping out of wounds, its my heart that brings tears to my eyes. So I bitch about the thorns, and you leave and quickly return. Bringing liquid bandage. You marvel at modern medicine, saying all it takes is three drops, to create an environment for the body’s natural healing process to begin. And I stand there thinking that the doctor who develops a cure for love, would surly win the nobel prize for medicine. Too soon my work is done, you reach in your pocket, and pay me. I don’t bother to count it, just stuff it in my shirt pocket. I start to walk away, you yell out to me, same time next week?