It's early morning, very early morning. When you are weaning yourself down to the lowest possible dose of cortisone, all according to the carefully designed protocols, sleep is more of an irritation than the restorative deep space it usually should be. That and the heat. And the man on holidays while you slave away at your desk.
You make a cup of tea and walk around the garden. Of course it's all gorgeous, dewy innocence, the first rays of sun so gentle, so benign, not a hint yet of the merciless heat it will throw down in maybe two, three hours. The garden smells like the boudoir of the queen of Sheba. Just out of interest and maybe for the Guinness book of records you start counting the flowering lilies (in myriad colours) and you stop when you reach 85 or maybe 95. He planted them, that same man you got so mad at last night because. Because. Because he was so healthy and fit and jolly after his glass or two of some stunning red wine (you guess it tastes stunning but of course you don't know because your drugs are prescription medicines and while you are required to combine all kinds of chemicals to remain human, alcohol is not permitted in the mix) and he never even guessed the urgency in your eyes when you asked for whatever it was you asked for because you knew if you could not get this or that done now you would not have enough energy later on. Or something other, all so incredibly unfair and why-me-ish. That endless game.
And so here he is, all fresh from his sleep, ready to cut the hedge on maybe the hottest day of the year, the century. We're ok love, he reassures me.