I opened the sliding door.
The smell reached me first.
Warm soda.
Wet paper.
Chlorine fighting a battle it had already lost.
Our brand-new pool, the pool we had saved 14 months to build, looked like somebody had emptied a convenience store into it.
The smell reached me first.
Juice boxes floated beside pizza crusts. Paper plates drifted near the shallow end, carrying swollen hot dog buns like tiny life rafts.
One lounge chair had a cracked leg.
The other had collapsed completely.
Cupcake frosting decorated the paving stones.
A plastic fork stuck out of my lavender bed.
Juice boxes floated beside pizza crusts.
Glenn stood behind me in complete silence.
He was a patient man. But when he saw a soda can resting inside the new skimmer basket, his left eye twitched.
“That chair cost $400.”
“I know.”
“Why does the flower bed have nachos in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“That chair cost $400.”
