Blood on the sleeve, just a drop seeps through his white shirt. Forgot he was wearing a good shirt, too good for yard-work, too thin for this job. He had never felt the pain of the bougainvillea spike but the shirt was ruined.
He had liked that shirt. A fisherman’s special by Columbia with an SPF of about forty. The sun was not his friend. More crimson stain.
Ironically, he was listening to In True Blood. Good for gardening, good for walking. The old man was convinced he could learn to write if he listened to the works of great authors.
Being an adult is a huge pain in the ass. He was also reading a biography of John Updike. The great author got rich telling the truth about his own life, mostly just changing the names of wives and lovers and children and neighbors.
Seemed like that might be a bad idea. Too dangerous.