Markus was a man who knew his way around the lip of a spatula. The wooden kind. He'd think with his thoughts to the last time he was able to get into his shop. It had been a few months. It seemed to him that he would never be able to taste that curved edge or scoop hallow the hole he jauntily placed off to the side of the scrape instead of the proper middle. His brothers guffawed him for it, being spoon and spatula makers themselves. All brown haired. All 5'7". All a touch paunchy and pithy and pine laden. Dust flecks and flakes tucking into the hairs in their ears and the holes in the buttons of their Tommy Bahama beach ready golf polos.
It had been a few months. Markus knew this because, as he looked to the left of him, a window allowed him full view of a lawn, and a cedar, and a quarry that was used to harvest quartz. The most telling of the three was the lawn, and so that is what Markus focused his complaints on the most.
"I ought to do some watering."
It was brown and brittle in most spaces that it lay. There were some green bits, but not as many as there were at a time previous to when he had last made his spatulas. It was true.
He ought to do some watering.
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