you talk to Ralph maybe once or twice every six months, except in the summer when he mows your front lawn (as he does with the rest of the neighbourhood’s resident’s lawns). he is a sweet yet playful kid — he’s 17, you heard. it’s a hot summer day and he was mowing your lawn, the last of the lot, and you invited him in for a glass of water.

“thank you, er…” Ralph says, trying his best to remember your name.