2. Simon

Simon gazed out into the yard where his labrador was rolling in the overgrown grass. When the dog stood up and shook the loose blades from his long golden coat, Simon lapsed out of his reverie and decided he'd mow the lawn. Today was the day. That lawn was getting mowed.

It had been two or three weeks now, partly because Simon had decided he liked the way the overgrowth looked at night. It reminded him of tumultuous waves on a stormy sea, and at 4 A.M. on a Thursday he'd leaned out an upper-floor window and imagined himself the captain of a Spanish galleon, trading sugar cane from Jamaica for Darjeeling tea. Before that, the reason for not mowing it was because of a slight twinge of tendonitis in his left knee, and he feared that pushing the mower might cause the condition to worsen. Before that, he had decided that gas-powered mowers were environmentally unsound and resolved therefore to get a push-powered one. Simon had forgotten all of this now. Today was the day.

The transformation from ragged green shag to cropped carpet was a surprise to Simon in the same way that haircuts often were. The rumbling engine and the smell of masticated vegetation inspired good feelings in him. When he surveyed his handiwork, a self-satisfied salute keeping the sun from his eyes, he caught a glint of something shining among the clippings. It was distinctly un-grasslike.

It took Simon a moment to piece together what it was. He guessed a ring would bounce off the front door, about that far, if someone were really and truly not coming back. "I'll pick it up later," he thought to himself, and went around to mow the other yard. When he'd finished, he went in, and the dog playfully followed.