November

Issue 38

    Roger Clement was a modest man.

    He lived in a small house in a modest neighborhood, with a lawn that required weekly mowing, shrubs that needed trimming twice a year, and a garden out back where he grew–quite successfully–a variety of vegetables and flowers. His gardening tools, his bags of fertilizer and insecticide were neatly arrayed along one wall in the garage, to the left of his several years obsolete car. It was completely paid for and meticulously maintained; Roger had no intention of purchasing another car until the current one was beyond repair.

    On the whole, his needs and desires were few. He had saved enough to keep him comfortable during his declining years, but he was still employed, and his modest salary allowed him occasional quiet enjoyments–a bottle of fine wine, an elegant dinner at a fine restaurant, vacations at places with exotic names.

    Many who knew him would have described him as a passionless man, ordinary in appearance, grayed now, a bit thick about the middle. His voice was soft and courteous, his mannerisms and habits moderate to the extreme. He had his home, his books, his garden, his vacations and his work; he needed little more.

    He had but one passion, and that was evident throughout his modest house.

    Roger Clement loved fish.