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“It’s the same when love comes an end.”
He stopped digging and looked up. “What? What’s the same?”
“The tomatoes wilting.”
“Tomatoes?” He leaned back on his haunches, the dirty spade clutched in his hand. He gestured with it. “End of tomatoes, end of love?”
“It’s not a progression. I didn’t mean a progression. I meant just the drying up. I mean it’s there and then it’s not.”
He stood up, brushed off his jeans. “Whose love are we talking about, exactly?”
“Or whose tomatoes.” She smiled, or tried to.
He didn’t find it funny. “Don’t you love me anymore? Were you talking about us?”
She didn’t answer at first, which he saw as an answer.
He threw down the spade. “Goddamn gardening. You take care of the goddamn tomatoes next time.”
“You grew a few good ones. Remember – those tomato sandwiches we had?”
“A whole garden for a few sandwiches? Jesus. Sore knees, sore back and a goddam sandwich or two.”
“I’m looking at the bright side,” she said.
“Bright side? And what’s the other side? What’s the not-bright side?”
She stared at the dry leaves, the empty vines. “I guess the bad back.”
He said nothing. He didn’t move. Finally, “Yeah, well.”
“Are we drying up?” She asked.
“I don’t know what you are doing.” He walked toward the house. “You decide what the hell you’re thinking. I’m taking a shower.” He slammed the screen door then opened it again. “Showers are wet.”