a/n: i know. another timely update:)

and thank you, VG:) could not have hoped for a better reading/reception. i was trying really hard to show-not-tell in this work. i'm glad things still came across!

for the record, i have nothing against being a housewife. like any occupation, it has its own challenges. but if it's not what makes you happy, then you shouldn't feel pressure to be there.

"I want a magnolia tree here," she said. "And a fountain here. I don't like that statue, but Francis insists." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "What do you think?"

He thought the backyard was fine.

He thought she could probably do most of this herself.

He thought she looked nice in trousers.

But, more than anything, he thought she had a lot of ideas, and he thought, "That's wonderful."

"Good." She clasped her hands together. "Where do we start?"

"Well, it's yours. Where do you want to begin?"

She smiled, a light hint of blush blooming in her cheeks.

And so he set to patching up the fence, replacing some of the boards, surprised at her willingness to help- planting herself on her knees in the dirt, wiping her hand along her cheek, leaving a feathered mark of dirt along her cheek.

"Does it take you long?" She held down a post as he hammered it down into the earth.

"This?" He gestured at the backyard. "Not if you keep helping. We should be able to finish before Francis comes home, if we're-"

"I meant your hair." Her smile curled along her lips, up to her warm brown eyes, so that he had to smile too. "You didn't grow up in this part of town."

"I did not." He stood, glancing from his handy work to her. "But I don't regret it- have you seen the way Francis dresses?"

She laughed- a pleasant musical thing, more of a song than a chime.

"No. The suit and tie- doesn't quit suit me, if that's what you mean."

She nodded; the curls in her hair bounced.

"He's like my brother. But he's very-"

"Francis?" Her brow arched upward. The surprise peaked through his face as she finished for him. "I know what you mean."

The fell back into quiet. He poured out a cup of paint in a pan; she picked up a brush. Together they set to white wash the greying boards holding back this side of the world from that, masking the charcoal color of the aging wood. As they neared the afternoon, the heat settled in- its feverish tendrils fanning out around them, curling about their necks so that the sweat collected in drops, the size of pin heads, along their temples. With the back of her wrist, she smoothed it out, only for it to collect again.

"You can go inside, if you'd like. I can manage."

"Don't be silly," she said, taking a shallowly labored breath. "If it were up to Francis I'd never do anything like this."

"Go outside?"

"Do this kind of work." She laughed.

"Well, you might mess up your hair. Or break those beautiful nails."

"He just wants my complete and utter safety." She was still smiling. She still loved him. She didn't know why she was saying any of this.

"Well he can't lock you up in a tower can he?"

She raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything. She still loved him; she didn't know why she was saying any of this.

"I'm grateful," she said, after a short long while. "Really- he works very hard, so that I don't have to."

Bash bit his tongue.

She asked about where he grew up, about how he learned to work on cars, about how he knew about baking pie. And so he told her about his mother- about what it was like growing up with a woman who had never been married. It was hard. He was grateful. He helped however he could- that meant learning how to fix things.

"What did she do?"

"She's a teacher."

Mary set a trowel in the dirt, carving out a circle in coffee colored mud. Nothing lived in this backyard- she'd tried planting several times. She'd hoped it was just the weather and said a prayer in her head that these ones would bloom. She wiped the sweat from her brow; it pooled back over. She imagined it the size of quarters in perfect circles on her forehead.

"I wanted to be a teacher."

He saw her. Carving a similar circle in the dirt, he wiggled an iris from its round clay pot, disturbing the roots.

"You would have been good at it."

She flushed. The heat swelled in her stomach, warming her chest, her palms, her cheeks- somewhere between uncomfortable and pleasant.

"I think we've had enough for today, then." He stood, reaching down for her. She took his hand and let him help her up.

The next day he came back, and they planted more- the rich purple irises and the lilies like white flutes in the leaves. And the day after, setting in the magnolia- not but a stick amidst a flock of large green ovals, but it would grow. And the day after that the fountain, small and round with two birds carved on the edge, the water springing from the middle with a soothing sound. And she lingered by the white front door in the morning for him to park his car in the street. He feared leaving oil spots in the drive.

Then he said, "The statue."

A copy of the Venus de Milo- the armless figure in the corner accumulating dirt in the shade. She loathed it.

"Francis likes it. He says it's better than dying plants. He likes art."

"Do you like it?"

"I hate it." She said, like the words were lured from her mouth.

"How much time does he spend here?"

"Only when he isn't working I suppose."

"And how much time do you spend here?"

A tinge of embarrassment reached through her, and she didn't want to say All the time- and for no reason the back of her eyes strained, so that she worried she might cry. Instead she said, "Let's get rid of it."

As they dragged the statue out, the circular base scarred the dirt, leaving a trench in the dirt, which Bash filled in and smoothed out.

"Storms coming," he mentioned. In the distance, silvery clouds congregated in the blue sky. "But we should be done by then."

And for no reason something like disappointment lingered under her skin, as they rolled the statue up the drive, down to where the trash man would pick her up, and Mary would never have to see the hideous thing again. She did not want them to be done.