I hope our gardener enjoyed our grapes. I hope he sat outside on a sunny day under an ant-free tree, popping each delicate, juicy orb. I hope a gentle breeze ran through his hair, drying the matted sweat-locks and tussling it like an attractive lover.
I hope the low echo-rumble of leaf blower—the sound that’s always in his head, like a pollutive noise-tattoo from a life of blowing elms—finally turned to sweet silence with each successive juicy fruit.
I hope a pretty girl whose chest looks like a toppled sine wave stood in his field of vision, bathing with the aid of a garden hose.
I hope he enjoyed my grapes in that manner. Because that motherfucker stole ’em.