She phones. Says she’s throwing stuff out.
I bought the plant for her. Beaucarnea recurvata. A ponytail palm. Small, but the kid on the till said it’d grow.
Now she doesn’t want it.
I’m driving over, thinking about the honeymoon. She came out of the bathroom wearing a t-shirt the first morning. On the front, big letters: ‘Mrs. Johnson.’
“Well?” she said, and I pulled her close.
Now she’s handing me the plant.
I check it out, an expert in Beaucarnea recurvata.
“It’s not dying, is it?”
“Your plant’s just fine, Mrs. Johnson.”
And I carry it out to my car.