gardening…

I crumpled the boxwood leaves with one hand then ran their scent across my pulse points and through my hair. I rubbed some dirt across my right cheek. My husband’s back was facing me where he bent over the vegetable garden he loved as I approached in my frayed denim shorts and cotton T-shirt. Baby’s breath and mums grew up my calves from where I’d shoved them inside my short suede boots. He heard me coming, stood and began smiling when he saw my legs. “Whatcha doin’?” he asked, his hands muddied with water and dirt from planting seedlings. I reached for his face and he bent down to kiss me with salty lips. “Gardening,” I said, because I didn’t know one whit about the garden and just wanted his attention. He knew this. He knew me. “Babe, I like how your garden grows.” “I thought ya might,” I said.

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