Monday, January 7, 2013
Given nothing grows in my yard during the winter months, and, ok, admittedly, to save a little money, I asked Max, my gardener, if we could switch to an every-other-week schedule until spring.
He nodded and smiled and said something to his assistant in Spanish which I'm sure translated to, "This cheap fucking bitch only wants us twice a month."
"Of course I'll tidy the place up on the off weeks," I said, and got into my car and pulled away.
Two blocks down Lake Street, I realized I'd left something behind and drove back home. Max's truck was gone.
Like most relationships, this one started with such promise. A courtship period in the fall filled with halcyon hours of mutual admiration. "Oh, I love the way you trim my hedge." "And I love to trim your hedge." Under Max's care, the grass was tamed and flowers bloomed, all was right with the world.
I guess things started going south in early winter. Just little things at first, you know, but significant, had I been paying attention. He seemed less interested, disenchanted, almost, with my hedge. Worse, after blowing leaves from the patio furniture, he forgot to put the seats down.
We should have talked. Why didn't we talk? Too busy narrating our own personal dramas, I guess. So when I said it was better if we didn't see one another so frequently -- took a little me-vacation -- it probably caught him off guard. Then again, he could have been more understanding.
Instead, now we're at a crossroads -- that all too familiar stage -- angry, confused, and wondering what the hell we ever saw in each other.