100TWC - Day 89: Twilight

The honks of a late skein of geese overflying his garden echoed through the trees. A haunting sound, at once distant and immediate. Graham stood on the new deck, a fresh glass of whisky in his hand, and surveyed the newly completed garden. A short shower earlier in the evening had freshened the grass and released the deep smells of the dark brown loam and bark chippings which had been laid only the day before. Now, in the deepening evening, the first scents of jasmine and stock filled the still air.

This was his favourite time of day. Neither day nor night. A comfortable resting space between the two when the day's work was done and the night's not yet begun. Animals active in daylight hours were winding down. Those who were nocturnal had yet to get started. Being neither one thing nor the other suited Graham. Unusually among all his friends he was at ease with uncertainty and ambivalence.

He sat down in one of the new recliners, sipped his drink and let the smoky sharpness of the whisky roll around his mouth before slipping down his throat. The warmth of it spread through his belly. He set his glass on the arm of the chair and stared out into the grey gloom. Amusement at the thought of the greyness bubbled up in his chest. He sat there, in the grey, wearing a grey T-shirt and grey sweat pants with grey socks and, he laughed out loud at this point, most of his friends called him Gray. He loved greyness so much that if his parents hadn't called him Graham they would probably have chosen Ash.

A bird whickered in one of the old trees the landscapers had left at the bottom of his plot. Good windbreak, they had said. Protection from being overlooked. Graham had just been glad to keep them there for the dark shadows they cast at this time of day.

The evening was still warm. In that gentle way that late summer, or early autumn evenings had. Like they trusted themselves to be warm without really trying, or worrying about how cold it was going to get later. Even in his thin cotton shirt Graham wasn't cold. The whisky didn't hurt though. He took another mouthful, and thought about changes. Day changed into night, and summer into autumn. And what was Graham changing into? He was definitely in transition, he knew that much. Yet in a strange way, he felt as comfortable with it as he did with the twilight. No longer day but not quite night. He laughed again quietly, because he could just as easily say he was no longer Gray but not quite... what? What was he going to call himself? He shook his head at the thought that he might choose something to rhyme with night. And then his fertile mind went off down that rabbit hole, trying to think of things that did. Rhyme with night that is. The whisky had given his imagination wings but he wasn't sure of the direction of flight. That rhymed with night! And so did fright. Was he frightened? Not right now. Here at the start of everything it felt-- well-- daunting maybe, but not frightening. Exciting? Yes, that.

A toad croaked. It sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the evening. So the nature pond idea had worked. Marvellous. The old pond had been ripped out years before but Graham had still, occasionally, unearthed a sleeping frog when moving a large boulder or a length of rotting timber. Now with the new shallow pond and its animal-friendly landing area beside the water, both he and the garden designer had hoped to attract a new generation of assorted amphibians. And Mr Toad was his first new tenant. He reached to pick up the remote control, flicked on the path lights and the spikes, and was just in time to catch a flash of Mr Toad as he jumped for cover. "That's right," he thought, "head for cover. You don't like the bright lights either, do you fella?"