Julia and Jack

Julia

I hate this place.

As the movers scurry about, hauling boxes and expensive furniture under Jack’s watchful eye, I lounge in a deck chair with a glass of lemonade in one hand, trying not to cry.

This whole place is ghastly, no matter where I turn. The landscapers had been out a few weeks earlier and had turned the backyard where I’m currently sitting into a patchwork of sod. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken, and the grass is now dead and lifeless. Beyond, the yard gives way to mud and marsh. Cypress trees rise up in gnarled fingers, their roots hidden by murky sludge. Insects whine and drone amid the greenish haze.

I won’t even let myself think about those dreadful tombstones. Jack’s been arguing with the town for permission to remove the cemetery, but so far, he hasn’t been able to cut through the red tape.

I take another sip of lemonade and then press the side of the sweating glass against my forehead. How is it so hot? It’s early November. Even the mountains of snow we had whil