i know what awaits me tomorrow — and for the next five months.

it will be quieter than what i’m used to, there. the fields i’ve tended are now a mile away at the far end of the hill-road. amid pasture and hunting grounds, i will spend the winter at his side in the plastic-covered temple of horticulture.

taxonomy of ornamental species eludes me: i’m a farmer. i couldn’t tell Cymbidium from Phalaenopsis or the proper potting medium for agave. i don’t know how to propagate from cuttings or how to scale back nitrogen dosages for overwintering.

i will learn, no doubt. but you will be the one to teach me.

i’m now obligated to sit close to you, to study your features while you explain how to prepare dahlia coffins. landfill by daughter plays softly somewhere on the potting bench, just loud enough to make out the words. i’ll bite my tongue and try not to fidget.

i am not the same idiot that stood before you in the windswept paddock as the world spun around us, flower boy. i have hardened my heart against your cold hands and curious stares. the distance between us was constant and comfortable in our respective at-will universes. humiliation has numbed my tongue and it no longer craves the pulse in your wrist.