There is a deck made of wooden planks on which two people sit. They sit on folding beach chairs, far from the beach. They are lovers, still in an early stage of their companionship where things like time and weather and happenstance and death are as little to them as a tuft of dust in the corner of a room or a chipped cereal bowl, and we must accept this. Yellow dandelions poke through the cracks of the planks beneath their feet, reach up and tickle the metal legs of their beach chairs. Like an animation the weeds rise upwards, grow quickly. Above, a sky so blue it's gray. The lovers, noticing the strangity, stand. The weeds keep rising all around them. Their stems thicken and eventually surpass them in height. Bigger and bigger they grow. The lovers look up at the flying saucer pedals now like they're clouds they need to read for signs of rainfall. Then they look back down at each other. Then back up.
In time, yet without hesitation, one says to the other, "You're graying."
And the other says to the one, "Your eyes have a web of wrinkles around them."
They laugh. The laughter is short lived. They age. Time passes quickly. Too quickly. One's knees grow weak. The other's hands become arthritic. They fear they will no longer be able to hold one another thoughtlessly. Then comes the pain. Some of it is physical, not all. The yellow dandelions are much too high now. They block out the sun. Morning or night they do not know. The planks of the deck are now invisible beneath their feet. They stand on the musky entwining of weeds.
At some point along the way, the sound of a hedge trimmer begins to whir. It comes as a hum that is, at first, too faint to speak of, but then it grows.
"Yes," the other says, regarding the hedge trimmer's nearing, half-agreeing to a sentence that the one never uttered. "Yes, but what?" says the one in reply, half-attempting to piece together a memory that long ago dissolved into fast-spinning years. What was it that had been asked of him? What was it?
All the while there is the sound of a gaining rumble, the hedge trimmer nearing.
Then one says to the other, "The sun has set baby," not actually knowing whether the sun has set or if it's still up there. All those weeds, all this blindness. A world too yellow to want for long. The hedge trimmer is now much too close for either of them to hear what the other is saying anyway. It's about a meter or two above their heads, it's holder invisible but still determining what to cut away.