Previous ||| Next
Corporate
At this altitude the wind would cause the carefully tended lawn to tremble with a chill, sudden and shocking. Flawlessly manicured blades of dollar bill green, cropped close like the hair of a soldier going to war, would flicker as gusts brushed tenderly over their severed tips. This lawn was one of the most meticulously kept green areas in the whole of the country, with a groundskeeper dedicated solely to keeping the soil proportions at their optimum level. A large plastic sheet that could be inflated was drawn over the lawn whenever it was at risk of the highly acidic rain, and heated mesh had been embedded an inch beneath the surface to protect against England's bitter winters.
This truly is the thoroughbred of lawns, thought the groundskeeper before jabbing a two-pronged metal hoop deep into the soil. Shame it's so wasted on these inbred toffs.
"Oh do hurry up, we're waiting to play. And I'm expecting a challenge this time, make it difficult."
His calloused hands, with their grainy lines discoloured by earth, whitened as his grip tightened on the remaining hoops. He jabbed downwards, imagining stabbing the stuck-up bitch in the neck, before pausing, concerned. What effect would spilled blood have on his precious lawn? He had spent years expending his love and attention on this lawn and it had come to represent an entire world, an entire life, for him. With a punctuating finality he stabbed the final hoop into place and stepped back to judge the course he had laid. It was a satisfaction he doubted any of the others shared.
"It'll do, it'll do. Now go away you filthy little man."
The groundskeeper retreated sullenly as the woman in the cream cotton sundress stalked over to his lawn. She had removed her heels and was barefoot on the grass, secretly savouring the feeling of the soft sharpness on her soles, her second favorite sensation after wet white sand between her toes. The wind whipped at her skirt pulling the material taut across her calves and thighs, outlining her shape as the marble of a statue. She was trim and aware of her body, unafraid to diet to the point of starvation until she had matched her physical presence to her mind’s ideal. She glared at the groundskeeper until he left.
"Thank God, I thought he'd never leave. Shall we start?"
"British Association Rules?" asked one of the men sat at the white iron table behind her.
"Really Brookie, British Association Rules. We play by our own rules, as always."
Brookie feigned a smile, doing his utmost to make it appear he had made a deliberate gaff for her benefit. Deep inside however he felt the pangs of his inner self chastising him for his stupidity. He repeated his mantra silently once more: say nothing, make your actions count, time's a-wasting. He picked up a glass of orange juice from the table and tried to look deep and mysterious.
"Brookie, that's mine."
A perfectly-manicured hand with blood-red nails reached across and snatched the glass back. She pinched the glass and stared loathingly at the smudged greasy fingerprints Brooks had left on it.
"Sorry Jacinta. I must have finished mine."
Jun.21.2004