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Can’t stop thinking about you. Sometimes I walk into a room, and there’s something about whatever is in the room that makes me think of you.
I miss things that we never got to do together. I reckon the Germans have a word for that. Missing things with a pang of regret, even though they never were. I miss that I never got to wake up and find you in my bed. I miss that I never got to show the world that you chose me to be yours.
Most of all, I just miss talking to you. Missing you so much as a friend feels like a part of me left the day you did, and I don’t know how to deal with that.
Don’t know how this is helping me feel any better, but there it is: how I feel for no one to read.
Regards Tom
A shriek tore me out of my thoughts, and the song I was listening to. I popped out my ear buds and turned as Rosie vaulted our boundary fence one handed, with pruning shears attached at her belt, her wild curls flailing in the wind.
“This is your idea of growing ‘a few grapes’?” she called out before ripping the pruning shears off in frustration.
She was pissed.
And my dick stirred to attention, just as it had back at the shearers’ quarters.
Rosie strode towards me, pointing the pruning shears with an angry fire in her eyes. I said a silent prayer to my dick to stay down this time.
“So it is true,” she cried again. “You’re growing grapes!”
“You knew I was. You helped with the assignment for ag science in high school!” I shot back, bewildered. My hands went to my hips, preparing for another fight. No more kissing your enemy.
“You planted an acre of grapes for an ag science assignment. But this—” She waved at the surrounding vines. “You grew a vineyard with my father! You asshat!”
The assignment was for ag science. All I had to plant was one row of grapes, and I could’ve done that at the high school, but no. I had a farm, I’d reasoned with my teacher. And I hadn’t just planted a row of grapes. I’d planted an acre, consulting with Rosie at each step, including soil testing, irrigation systems, microclimate temperature and rainfall readings for this part of the farm.
“I just planted more each year since that assignment. Angelo liked to watch and tell me stories while he sat in the shade. What’s wrong with that?”
Turned out I liked plants, and the results turned out to be extremely promising, so I’d kept planting more cuttings each year. Angelo was happy to supply me with the cuttings and the advice, and watched as I put in strainer posts and set up the wire.
And planting every spring until I ended up with ten acres of grapes in six years.
“So not only are you going into competition with us growing grapes for wine, but you also cancel our order of your lamb for our restaurant? Unbelievable.”
I blinked in utter confusion, but my dick was now tenting my pants. Was this a fetish thing? Was I doomed to enjoy being yelled at and insulted by the woman I hated? I cleared my throat and tried to adjust myself as subtly as possible.
“Can you stop scratching your balls for one second—” My dick twitched at the mention of my balls—“and explain yourself? Actually, no. Fuck you! I hope you do make your own wine and bottle it in magnum-size bottles because I want to make sure it hurts like hell when I shove it up your arse!”
I couldn’t help myself and barked a laugh. “You want to shove things up my arse? Kinky.”
Rosie howled and threw her pruning shears. I ducked, luckily, or else they would’ve clocked me between the eyes.
“Christ on a swing set, Rosie. What the actual—”
She came up closer, and I stumbled against the strainer post at the end of a row of tempranillo grapes. I narrowly avoid stumbling into the rosebush at the end of the row. The thorns on it are huge, and my work pants were useless against them.
“You know what I’m talking about!” Rosie stabbed a finger against my chest, right where her mother had done the same last night.
I stifled a groan, inhaling the orange and herb scent of her shampoo.
“All I know is your new chef didn’t want our lamb and didn’t honour the order made before they started with the restaurant, so we sold it to the pub instead.”
“W-what?” she stammered.
“This is twice in one day where you didn’t get your facts straight before you’ve accused me of stuff that didn’t happen. And about the grapes? I just kept adding more rows and growing them. It was something I enjoyed that wasn’t sheep.”
Rosie scowled but stayed silent.
