la tercera persona

He wanted to take the German Shepherd, Sally with him and go into town. She would keep him company for the thiry'minute walk, then he'd lash her leash around a pole while he sat in a cafe, or pretend to occupy himself with her while people examined the pair sliding along the sidewalk.

But Sally's owner didn't like her to leave the farm, and he, himself shouldn't go off either, and leave Mama in her caravan or the kitchen, alone. The weather was clearing up anyway, the fog lifting ever so slightly, the birds coming back out to catch up on all the gossip... the rain had even stopped, though it was still dripping down the concrete walls inside his room, he was sure.

So he sat in the kitchen, where there was light, and read his books, wrote in his journal, cracked almonds, squeezed orange juice -- the usual rainy day stuff. Sally lay on the floor in front of the unlit fireplace, agreeing that the weather was still too ugly to venture out and do some farmwork.

He rested his chin on his wrist, on the table, where he could smell onions and garlic, remnants of the last night's feast. His heels were up on the chair legs, toes on the ground, pointed inwards, and his belly, full from oaty breakfast crunch, hung comfortably over his belt buckle.

He heard Sally stir, and cocked his head in her direction. Her eyes glanced up and stared back into his, then returned to their half-closed state. She drew a loud, powerful breath through her nose, and then exhaled, blowing up a tiny dust storm above the concrete floor.

Half an hour and half a clear sky later, Peter arrived. Together they planted the remaining half of the 700 potato plants.