After 20 years of soap and bleach, Jeremy still has grass stains on his knees

 

There are moments when I can see it in his eyes; he’s convinced he has the worst of it off. But then he’ll look more closely and see they’re still green. His evenings are often spent scrubbing at the skin; scratching at the surface and digging fingernails across pores to provoke a raw, red tinge to his emerald knees.

Delicate green blades respond to the soles of his feet by flexing, then springing back like a cowlick. The faster he runs, the more he is absorbed by the spongy grasses. He longs to dive beneath their surface, to the safety of its living crust. Laid prostrate, against the sun with the lawn at his back, he practices being naked; unlearning time and temperature, realising youth and pleasure.

But the pigments become inflamed; noticeable, increasingly intense and obscene. He resigns to reality and chooses to return to adulthood; to endure and survive. As the sun ducks behind the faintest tuft of cloud, the grass beneath him starts to itch. The cool air causes a chill and thoughts stray to tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. Jeremy begins to count the cost by the shades of colour that have consolidated on his skin. He longs to reclaim the time, that was given to indulgence, but should have been spent rubbing at the grass stains on his knees.