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Sun on the Patio

I’ve done a good job on the patio. The stones look brand new. Scrubbed clean back to their original mineral grey colour. And the weeds haven’t grown back in between them. I hacked up all the big green buggers. It took the whole spray bottle of weed killer to get them all. Now the remnants of their roots are nothing but thin withered wisps.

The sun is out, it’s warm in the air. This is more like it. Only this garden faces the wrong way. West facing? Or is it east? Can’t remember, but it’s the wrong way. There’s only a bit of sun on the patio in the morning then it’s all shadow. I’ve brought the stool out and I’m leaning against the fence with my top off. If I close my eyes and focus on the red colour on the inside of my eyelids, it’s nice. It’s like I’m somewhere else.

She’s inside doing her makeup. I think we’re going to the beach. She’s seen someone on TikTok at the beach with blankets and flasks of tea and fish and chips and now that’s what she wants. Fine. I’m not even hungry. My belly is still whirring off last night’s chilli, and the beer.

The grass still needs done. The weeds are all over it, rooted deep. There’s these brambles coming out of the earth. They’ve spread out everywhere, long and twisting and sharp. I don’t have good enough gloves to remove it after it’s been chopped without being pricked by their thorns. They’re wrapped around the shed and the fence in the back which are rotted and riddled with rusty nails. It all needs to be cleared out and started fresh.

She comes out the back door. She’s in her black shades and black gym top. And those sports leggings. The arse on her. Good lord. She sits it on top of me and I slap it.

‘What you doing out here?’

‘Enjoying this sun.’

‘It’s still cold.’

‘I think it’s nice.’

She gets off me.

‘When’s the garden guy coming round?’

‘Didn’t say. All he mentioned was the price.’

‘We could just do it ourselves.’

‘There’s too much to do.’

‘You did the patio.’

‘Aye.’

There’s a sound of water hitting against metal. The neighbours jet-washing their taxis. For the 10th time this week. We still can’t work out where they’re from, but we’ve narrowed it down to either Turkey or Romania. Maybe Hungary. Two sisters married to taxi husbands. They’re canny. Always working. The guy in the flat above always smiles at me. He’s like my best friend. I let him use our hosepipe.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Not really.’

‘Me neither. Go get a stool and bring it out here. Sit with me.’

‘Okay!’

She gets it and we’re sitting in the sun.

‘This is like a holiday.’

‘It’s good.’

‘Want to go to the beach still?’

‘No.’

The sun is still there just above next door’s chimney. The shadow of their house covers half of the patio now. We’re sitting right at the edge, just before the weeds and the brambles take over.