Tracey

He slammed the door and stood there, panting, twitching, fists clenched and blowing out hard. He sat on the bench and slipped on a pair of gloves, feeling without seeing if they matched, distracted by the freshness and the cool, a bigger outside space, not stinking stuffy like the car or baking like the flat; the plants all ushering peace.

And then whack, he had to cover his ears as a petrol mower smoked and choked the whole area out. Were they just starting or nearly finished? He had to focus, not go back in or lay on a sunbed with his hands over his ears until it stopped. His mouth opened to better inhale the green air – the cut grass usually a treat, albeit a sad warning that a monster was on the towpath. 

He walked to the swing and tried to work out which garden it was coming from. If it was Nick – it could take an hour. The other gardens were much smaller and should finish in ten minutes depending on when they started. He couldn’t make out what was rustling in the green bamboos behind the pittosporum in front of him – the squirrels, or a cat chasing his birds. Squirrels and birds he decided, as jumping feet and wings forced a Mexican wave with the foliage all around him.