Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

The heavy iron trowel slipped out of my hand and clattered against the rim of a red clay flowerpot. It was the third time that morning I had dropped it, and the metal sounded entirely too loud in the quiet of the potting shed.

Donald paused his work at the flat of winter cyclamens, pulling his wool tie up to polish his spectacles. He did not look at continue reading …