Carrots in the Garden.

He hadn’t heard what she’d said. The rain was coming down in grey mist, the air pregnant with clouds that hugged the rolling pine around them making the sky seem closer. He’d been staring at the earth that clung to his hands in sticky lumps. It was rich, dark brown, smelled of musk and dirt and life. There was something satisfying in peeling it from his fingers and rolling it into small, smooth balls.

“What made you think of it? The story?” She stood, paused from tilling the soil with her pitchfork. Burnt mahogany escaped her ponytail, bounced beside her eye, tickled her cheek. She smiled, looked at him expectantly.

He stopped rolling, flicked a ball of mud at her. She giggled. “Magic,” he said. He spied a speck of dirty orange peeking out from the broken soil, began trying to pry it free with two fingers. “Nah, I dunno. Just sat down and the thought hit me, what does it feel like to be in love with a girl who doesn’t love you back?” He loosed the carrot, held it up to her. It was deformed and runty, but remained unbroken, split at the bottom like a pair of legs. He made it waddle through the air like some sultry, slow-motion walk before tossing it at her. “In the end the main character throws himself off a bridge in surrender to the futility of life.”

She swatted the carrot, laughed. Her eyes matched the soil. They were profound, reminded him of the wilderness. “Wow, just like that?”

He faltered, wondered if she’d noticed, spotted another carrot, took to removing it gently from the soil. “Just like that.”