Greg and Clara sit in lawn chairs on their front porch, basking in the shade. It’s a beautiful summer day. Birds chirp their cheerful songs and light traffic passes casually by with lazy regularity. People mill about the sunshine: dog walkers, joggers, families on their way to or from a picnic.
Greg’s tired eyes hide behind thick, smudged glasses that rest heavily on his nose. He repeatedly nods his head and jerks awake again until, finally, he nods once more and snoring replaces his lethargic breathing.
Clara’s vibrant eyes scan the pages of the open book in her hands. She hasn’t looked up from the novel since she started reading hours ago. She flips to the next page and attempts to fight off a sneeze. She fails.
“Achoo!”
Greg bolts to wakefulness with a snort and a cough.
“Just a sneeze,” says Clara, “Go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Greg replies.
“Mmhmm,” Clara sarcastically concedes.
Greg grunts and mumbles as he removes his glasses and wipes them with the corner of his plaid shirt. Clara finally sets her book on the small table between her and Greg and looks out at the pretty scene. The neighborhood bustles about in that idle, unconcerned, summer-ish kind of way.
“Do you see that?” Clara asks Greg.
“What?”
Greg slides his glasses back onto his face as Clara points across the street.
“What’s he doing with that?” she says.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Greg replies.
The two of them stare across the street in silence for a few moments until a fly begins buzzing around Greg’s head. He shoos it away, but every time he does, it comes back again.
Finally, Greg’s had enough. He grabs a fly swatter resting beside Clara’s book. He follows the fly with his intense gaze, waiting for the opportune moment. After a few brief stops, the fly settles in a single location long enough for Greg to make his move.
“Maybe you should help him,” Clara says, disrupting Greg’s concentration. He misses the fly to the right and turns to Clara, frustrated.
“What?” he groans.
“Don’t you think you should help him?” Clara repeats. Greg looks across the street again.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he says.
“But he’s just a—
“All these young people have to learn responsibility,” Greg continued, “When I was his age—
“Oh, here we go.” It’s Clara’s turn to interrupt. “You sound like a cantankerous dinosaur.”
Greg grumbles under his breath.
“Go help him, Greg,” Clara says.
“If I do that, how will he learn to do it for himself?”
“Don’t be a pill, you old fossil,” Clara scolds. She hoists herself out of her chair, walking past Greg on her way to the door.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m getting some lemonade,” Clara answers, “while you go help him.”
Clara enters the house, not giving Greg a chance to reply. He mutters complaints to himself, but leaves his chair and walks across the street anyway.
In the yard opposite Greg and Clara’s, a boy of about nine years old wrestles with an old reel mower. In his struggle to mow the grass, he accomplishes little. His small stature and light weight make the mower a formidable opponent.
Greg approaches and hails the boy with a kind greeting. He offers to help and the child gratefully accepts. Before they can get started, though, Clara stops them with two glasses of lemonade, reminding them the lawn will still be there when they’ve finished.