Growth
"I don't like green houses."
I stared disapprovingly at one of the houses in my neighborhood. I was driving back from the local supermarket, groceries in the back. My car slowly rolled to a stop before the intersection.
"What's wrong with greenhouses?" My wife asked, confused at my sudden declaration that came out of nowhere.
She should be used to this by now. I usually say things out of the blue like this.
"I just don't," I replied. "They don't fit into the neighborhood."
This perplexed her even more. "Where do you even see a greenhouse?"
Now I was confused. "What? There is one right there, see?" I said, pointing vaguely off to the right. "And another one over there."
"I don't see any greenhouses," my wife replied. Now she was entering into the state of mind of thinking that either I was crazy, that she was blind, or that I was somehow fucking with her.
Incredulously, since I was literally staring at a green house in front of me, I replied with frustration while I pushed the accelerator so the car moved forward through the intersection.
"There's one right there! Look, its green! GREEN." The other houses I waved at. "Those are all the same neutral beige..."
"Oh! Oh!! THOSE," My wife epiphanized. "I was wondering, what is it that you had against greenhouses?"
I gasped, "I just said they didn't fit the other colors of the neighborhood," I growlfed at her, sorely chuffed.
"No, like, the OTHER kind of greenhouse..."
"Oh, the ones with glass and plants and stuff? What, no, there aren't any here..."
"Hence why I was confused."
"Ugh, no. Feh. Stupid English." I shook my head. "Being confusing."
Blissfully, though, it was time to turn into the garage.