Perhaps it was the protruding veins on her hands, or the unresistant fate of her predicament, but a quiet hatred stirred in her feebleness. It was a kind of stew that bubbled on the stove, unstirred, so the brittle meat and rotten peas were left unsuspected between straight lips and crossed ankles.
The wooden box rested on the shelf beside an ivory elephant and ancient teacups. Its factory wood glowed bright as plastic grass sat inside. Each strand was perfectly spaced, perfectly level, perfectly straight, perfectly green. The 8x5 grass patch had remained that way for years. Thankfully though, it grew blurrier and blurrier everyday -- at least from the chair where she sat.
The grass was more than her enemy, it was also her need.
Her lover from a wild night.
Her victory, as well as her death.
A final fling with passion, eclipsed with a smoking barrel roll.
Decay is foreign only to grass that is plastic.
