Squash waited. For months he’d tormented Man.
Squash has a reputation for prolific growth. He’s known to envelop vast swathes of plot. But not this summer, not this place: the game was afoot.
Man was confused. Why did this Goliath confine himself to single square foot? Perhaps he was sick.
Squash escaped. A fortnight before the close of play, he made a break for freedom. He burst from his prison across the neighbouring path.
Man was perplexed by this strange turn of events. His books shed no light on this strange pattern of growth. Still, his optimism returned. Maybe he would feast after all.
The frost arrived.
Squash pulled the plug, deflating with unseemly haste. In a matter of hours he’d expelled all life from his lungs.
Man is disappointed. Maybe next year.
Squash knows better.