Harvesting

Christina glanced up. “Oh, honey, I’m glad you’re home. Can you get the claymore for me?”

Harold set down his briefcase. “Uh, sure. Where is it?”

“Back of the closet there. I was silly and put on the breastplate first, and now I can’t reach.”

“Doing a little gardening?” He hefted the six-foot blade and handed it over.

“It’s got to be done. They’re getting too big to handle. And we’re almost out of tomatoes.” She lifted the sword to ready position. “Okay. Open the door.”

Harold cautiously grasped the handle. Outside, the peas roared and scrabbled at the glass.