Justin dragged the hose toward the spigot. Where it had once looked angry and very much alive as it spit in Thom’s face, it now really did look quite done. Maybe it was calmer now that it was in Justin’s hands instead of his own. Thom could hardly blame it for that. He shook his head and closed his eyes. No. He refused to allow himself to throw a pity party centered around anthropomorphized garden tools.
“I have this amazing white that a friend of mine makes,” Justin said, winding the hose around its reel. “It’s a chardonnay, if you like those. And don’t be put off by the idea of homemade, either. This guy has won actual awards for his wine. This one time, he—”
“Justin, please,” Thom stepped forward. His hands, now empty, resorted to wringing one another. “You don’t understand—”
“But I’
