5. Hose & Garden
By Gordy Fluffer — Because the yard deserves attention too.
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The doorbell rang at 1:59 p.m.
Harold opened it before the second ding could land.
There stood Rafael, glistening like a moral dilemma in the sun, holding a garden hose coiled over one shoulder like a Roman laurel crown and wearing a tank top that was, by all accounts, in distress.
It clung where it should drape, rode where it should rest, and left nothing to the imagination except how it was still legally considered a shirt.
His shorts were practical. His work boots were unlaced but secure.
And his thighs—God help them all—were engaged.
Glenn (whispering):
“That tank top is hanging on like it owes back rent.”
Harold (already staring):
“It’s losing the fight, Glenn. But it’s going down with honor.”
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Rafael:
“Today is yard work. Quick pass on the garden. Hose rinse. Window touch-up.”
He said it like it was a grocery list. Like they hadn’t both just stopped breathing.
He moved around the side of the house with a quiet confidence that suggested he knew they were watching—but never acknowledged it.
They didn’t follow.
They watched. From the recliners. Through the window.
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The hose was stubborn. Coiled tight. Rafael bent, shifted, pulled—his tank top lifted just enough to expose a sliver of back that looked like it had been sculpted by regret and low-carb bread.
He straightened. Tested the nozzle. Water hissed.
Then sprayed—cool, deliberate, arcing in slow rhythm over the patio stone.
He watered the lavender. The sage.
He reached up to clip a low-hanging bougainvillea branch.
Glenn (gripping his glass):
“He’s pruning.”
Harold:
“He’s preaching.”
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At one point, the hose kinked. Rafael didn’t swear. He didn’t panic.
He simply followed it back, bent—again—and released the twist with one smooth, solid motion.
The hose shuddered.
Glenn (choking):
“Did it just... exhale?”
Harold:
“I need to sit down.”
Glenn:
“You are sitting.”
Harold:
“Then I need to lie down in spirit.”
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Rafael rinsed the porch. Washed the patio chairs. Then, without ceremony, turned the hose on the garden path and made the dust vanish.
He stepped back to admire his work, tank top sticking slightly, boots wet, one hand on his hip.
He turned toward the house and raised two fingers in a small salute.
Rafael:
“Next week, I won’t be in. A colleague will handle your visit.”
He didn’t wait for questions. He didn’t explain.
He just walked away—hose over one shoulder, thighs moving like forgiveness, and that poor tank top still fighting the good fight.
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Inside, the air was thick.
Glenn:
“What… just happened?”
Harold (gazing at the garden):
“I think we were baptized.”
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End.