Gaps between the fence slats, like the ones in his perspective, laid stripes across deserted lawn he never had to cut. Dusty pages of a melancholy novel keep catching drifts of wind and trying to turn, but he grabs them quickly and finds his place again within the narrow lines of text. All he ever wanted was an easy life, a paper in the morning with a cup of coffee black as the dreamless night he tried to shake before he went to work. So he sipped his whisky and bitters till the sun rested level on the curvature of earth and split the fence gaps even more, and he peered through them thinking of what they used to tell him about fences and the grass that they eclipse, the over-saturated greenery that even in the hottest August is sated with dew.
The fence was compromised in spots, boards just barely nailed and some so warped they seemed like helixes of dna, a gate that in a stronger wind might open on its own. When he stepped through it he realized that what they’d always said was wrong, because looking back to where he left the grass was brown as ever; the sad little book, already cracked and yellowed from the taste of sun it had, just fluttered in the parching breeze haphazardly without concern for plot. He didn’t like the author anyway, and so he closed the gate behind him and he never left. He has to mow a couple times a month, but what the hell. He likes the smell it makes.