Emilydeare Bush

The train rolled down Frankford Ave. rattling the mugs on their brass coloured hooks, chiming close to breaking, the turn of the hour. The open sign flipped outwards conning people in from the street with the false pretense that there would be coffee and lattes, perhaps a blueberry muffin, to be had before work. The music this morning couldn’t be too bass driven, percussion section had to be timid and humbly obliged to upkeep the rhythm, a female vocalist. Natasha Wood was playing through the speakers and her acoustic guitar fell note by note to pieces on the sidewalk. Her voice slid silky over the few tables under the awning and behind the front window. It was 8:03, the kertrunking of the train faded into the trees a few miles east.

The man with the green letters scrolled across his face and chest set tan plastic dishes of sweetener packets on the tables, unfurled the umbrellas above the porch seating then opened the gate of the knee high fence that separated the sidewalk from his caffeinated guests. He walked back inside the shop and poured himself a cup of coffee. As the black curved like a magnifying lens at the rim of the mug, he thought about the progression of how he drank his joe. How at first the taste of the coffee bean was too bitter and needed to be weakened with sugar, of course creamer as well. As the days wore on him he added less and less until he drank black strong, undiluted pots of it himself. His back cracked as he bent to singe his lips slurping the top inch to be able to walk with it. Fog covered his thin wire framed Lennon glasses when he lift his head, he reached into his sweater pocket and emerged with a handkerchief to wipe the moisture from his face. Behind the sheet of olive green stood a young woman patiently waiting with a cherubic grin for the woolen man to finish.

“Don’t rub Buddha’s Belly” was thrown against her crème t-shirt written in fabric paint and permanent marker. Anatomically adjusted for billboard attire, there wasn’t much distracting from the message trying to be conveyed, though just enough to daydream about. It became routine for the aged man to read her shirt before he even considered listening to her order. It took her a few visits, a few days of playing psychologist and not wearing one with writing, side glances on her part before the expected questioning, which could have done on her first visit. He responded simply and flatly without malice or contempt and her spirits were settled to a cozy consumer friendship with the gentleman. This shirt he just shrugged towards then brought his eyes to greet the young lady’s. “The usual George, nothing special” “coming in a moment.” Not exasperated or tired but with his patented easy come easy go voice he turned away to make her coffee. “Are the muffins baked yet? I know it’s a breath passed 8:30 but I was hoping may be...” “You know, it should go without saying” he was still facing the wall with the poster of Sinatra and Jobin. “What does?” “Sacrilegious actions like those.” And he turned around on his heels with his finger extended until it rested in the direction of her shirt. “Yeah but a lot of people don’t know. No offense but I didn’t expect you to know.” Her voice shot high at A Lot and became almost a mumble near the end of the statement. “There’s quite a bit that most don’t expect me to be so informed about. There’s a lot you don’t know regarding my interests in life. For example...coffee.” And he handed her the waxed cardboard that time has placed coffee in with a smile. “There you are Bobbi, wait a minute and I’ll check those muffins. What flavor?” Everything was a flavor to him, from candles to colours. “I’ll take a blueberry. Oh! Wait banana if you’ve made them. I love them the best.”

The elder man walked out from the backroom with a basket of oven fresh muffins and for a second the young girl thought about the bakers in the fairy tales she was told as a child. Later during the day she will realize that it was because the old man must have put his apron on while taking the food from the oven and that it was only the apron which made him resemble such an odd character.

George saw the young girls’ daydream and assumed she wouldn’t mind him taking the liberty of wrapping the muffin to go. He also thought that this semester she had psychology as a morning class, or so he swore he pieced that together somehow. It wasn’t long before she had the exact amount including tax out and reaching for the old mans’ hand. They made the exchange and then one of their good-byes.

He walked back to where he emerged with the basket and the creak of the oven sounded warm in the emptiness of the shop. The ceiling fan in the center of the room blew a photograph from the corner of his register. The bells hung on the doorknob jangled as it was opened and clamored as it closed. The old man glanced at the time, 9:30; somehow an hour had escaped him. It was time for the construction worker, Joe, to rush in late for work as usual.

George waited for the ritualistic call of his name followed by an abrupt order of a hot chocolate and cheese Danish but a minute passed and there was nothing. When he came through the swinging doors Jerry was standing apparently staring at the Danishes.

“Good morning Joe. Take the day off?” The old man just shot off nonchalantly trying to make conversation. “Ah, yeah. How are you Harry?” Joe was obviously caught by something else. He wasn’t a hard book to read. George responded to being called Harry, the people that have lived here as long as he had all called him by his last name. “I’m alright, running a little behind today, I guess it happens to the best of us.” That was all wink-wink nudge-nudge to George. Still he stood there in his brown jumpsuit (waterproof) and navy blue t-shirt (not waterproof); no doubt his work boots were shabbily thrown on his feet. “Is there anything I can do for you Jerry?” He waited patiently for a reply. “How about the usual, cheese and chocolate?” He was already putting the rectangular strips of wax paper in his hand, opening the glass display with the other. “That sounds good Harry. No rush today, I took today off.” His voice was weak and slow, the complete inverse of his usual self. When he asked “Hey Harry, how’s your wife?” His voice was even weaker. It was then that George looked through the glass at Joe and saw the photograph in his hand. “She’s not doing too badly. She should be having trouble sleeping right about now.” George laughed knowing this to be true. “That’s great to hear.” Jerry was physically there, a never shaved thirty odd year old kid in brown and blue but his eyes went through George as he handed the picture back.
“So how much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house Joe”
“Why?”
“It’s my anniversary with Emily”
“25 years Joe” the two men said nothing.
“This one is on the house.” Joe thanked him and turned to leave.
“25 years of happiness?” He sounded like a child asking a fact he just learned.
“No. 25 years of experience in all fields of love.” The old man had a monkish smile when he let his lips relax. Somehow this was enough for Joe; he turned and left the shop.

It was the anniversary of the old man and his wife, the weather was perfect, George was standing behind the counter watching the table clothes outside which were caught in the tides of the breeze. He noticed the sun was over the clock tower of the station and would be peeking through the tiny gap in the window drapes waking his wife Emily to an eyeful of day.

He had left a bouquet of wildflowers on her nightstand with a short poem and in the oven were croissants and cherry Danish (whose cherries were organized into a heart). On the stove a filled tea kettle; mug; teabag and sugar dish were lined on a tray that sat on an unused burner. It wasn’t much, George knew this but what he hadn’t given her was the gift he thought could be worthy of her approval. In truth it really wasn’t enough for him. It was common knowledge between them that just a kiss and a few flowers were enough for Emily. She was the type of woman that wouldn’t mention presents near Christmas or birthdays unless you made the mistake of instigating her. The old man found this out within the first few years, had fun with it for another couple and had finally resolved to just not go through the daily inquisitions and surprise the old woman every holiday.

George sat behind the front glass, green letters graffiti his body again and came to a conclusion; he would leave work early and take a bicycle ride to pick up Emily’s present. Perhaps he would arrive at the house enough for them to have a picnic. It was 10o`clock; he would close the shop at noon.

A buzzer in the backroom croaked mechanically and in his Pavlov way the old man made his way to the sound. George’s hand shook a little as he grabbed the damp towel then slid out a large sheet from the oven. He stood in front of the open oven “I should shut down and let everything cool off so I can clean and get out of here.” He nodded in agreement with himself and turned a dial counter clockwise, grabbed another towel and a bucket that held a bottle of bleach then made his walk to the counter.

There wasn’t much mess; in fact, there was no mess at all. A few crumbs from the cheese Danish and a flock of muffin crumbs where the girl must have struggled to open the door. George made a swoop of the shop, first he wiped the counter and the tables then swept the linoleum floor. There was enough time so he went from table to table collecting the dishes and little filing cabinets filled with every sugar and substitute he had been asked for. It was the second to the last table when he asked himself why he still did this, gather the sugar and silverware at the end of every night. He knew the next day wouldn’t be much busier (the weather was perfect for the residents here but wasn’t good patron weather until midday) but somehow believed that may be one person would walk in and find his shop dirtier than he would like. So, he gathered the tableware, retired everything where it belonged, silverware and mugs to the cupboard; sugar packets in the drawers behind the counter, then went to check the oven.

The oven was cleaned, the shop disinfected and all of its things collected. George stood hunched over a deep old wash sink fussing over its faucet, which was known to drip. It was a minor detail, an incredibly irritating one at times, which he figured, could easily be fixed, in the last hour or so he had to spare. This would have been true if he were a plumber. At least the type of person to keep the crucial materials for proper maintenance of the building. He wasn’t this type of man. Instead he simply kept a few wrenches; a lost ratchet set; two multi-tipped screwdrivers (one of which had long since lost all four tips choices) and duct tape.

George would have had enough time had he washed the dirty pans rather than take them out and begin mussing with the spigot. He looked over at the dishes and sighed, reached into his pocket fetching his watch noticed it was nearly noon. “Well now, I guess this will have to go on the back burner” he muttered in a bleak tone. Disappointed that he couldn’t fix something as simple as a leaky faucet he decided that he would ring the plumber Monday. He returned the watch to his pants and ran the hot water a couple of seconds while he organized the items to be cleaned from smallest to largest. First was a wooden spoon.

His keys clanked against the glass front door as he locked the store. The darkness where the closed sign hung had the reflection of the train station a crossed the street, George moved to see the entire landscape and to remove his face from the scene. His bicycle was tied to a tree in the sidewalk ahead of him, more to ensure the rumbling of the train couldn’t topple it rather than for security from theft. He untied the rope, folded it and placed it in his pocket then balanced himself on the bike and pedaled off.
It was later than he wanted to leave but as the sun was still high in the center of the sky he figured he wasn’t too behind in plans. He was still going to bike the few miles of sun soaked street, up the hill to Carl, say hello and pick up the present. It was after the first mile he began to think back to Jerry and his off mood this morning. He was sluggish, his mind preoccupied by a thought that wasn’t part of a routine and that was beside the fact he was polite to George. Jerry didn’t seem the type to call in sick from work simply because he could and the odd question of how Emily was fairing was the first he had shown interest in personal affairs.

George went through his mental rolodex of needless information people gave when in the store, some very bad at small talk, while his eyes attached themselves to the fountain in front of Jefferson Park. The water was clean and a ring of footprints around it was evidence the children were out trying to cool. His mind began to wander from Jerry to Mrs. Smitz, the elementary school teacher, who was watering the shaded garden along the side of her house. He waved to her and she to him then continued her way towards the rear of the house. George chuckled as he pedaled along, harder now that he was at the hill, at the thought of some secrets people hold, even if they believe them to be forgotten. He shook his head free of the memory of her valentine card to him in the third grade and how he refused to ask her to the following dance.

He was nearly to Carl’s house, which was flanked by greenhouses, when he started to sweat. He cursed himself under his breath and pumped the rest of the hill out of him, arriving at the first greenhouse a little disheveled.

A voice came from the rear of the home, deep and raspy, undoubtedly Carl. George placed his bike against the ground then walked where the voice had come from.

Now, Carl wasn’t an old man, compared to Harry he didn’t seem old at all; he was thin and looked much like a farmer rather than a horticulturist. He wore tan-sunglasses despite the weather and had a cigar sized moustache that he twitched side to side while he spoke. Carl was constantly filthy, at times smelling like he used his fertilizer as after-shave, and the dirt hid how many years he’d been around. It also hid the colours of his clothes most days. Carl motioned towards the front porch and the two men proceeded to seat themselves on the porch.

“Sharon just made some lemonade” Carl waved his hand at the little table between them, placed there by his wife.
“I still don’t like lemonade” Harry shook his head. “Thank you though.” He said immediately, not because Carl would be offended, but more because he was born with an excessive amount of politeness.

They made small talk, sports (what little Harry knew); politics (what little mattered); and the over all health of each other’s companion. The two men seemed satisfied with the conversation, neither of them in the mood to speak any further, when Sharon walked onto the porch.
“Did you hear about Amie?” Harry blinked at her attempting to figure a face and importance to a name; that sounded familiar but otherwise held no significance. Sharon noticed his confusion and abruptly as a side-note humpht---
“Joe’s fiancée”, then waited for Harry to indicate that he followed her.

“It happened early this morning on her way to work. You know how she works at the post office in the crack of morning...well; some one on vacation coming from an all-nighter at the tavern rear-ended her.” Sharon’s face was red with agitation. Harry understood what she had said but the severity of it escaped him; he sat without saying a word.

“She lost control and wrecked a tree head-on. It was down by Orchard Lane with those thick maples. She was taken to the city for head trauma. Doctors here at St. Jude thought that they weren’t prepared for the medical attention she would need.” Carl was sitting forward swirling his glass of lemonade until the lemon slices were pressed against the glass. Harry was shocked, dumbfounded, embarrassed, unsure as to what he was expected to say.

“Joe came into the shop this morning. He seemed out of the ordinary, but it didn’t appear like he had gotten that news.” He wasn’t quite certain if this was appropriate to mention.
“They had a fight before she left for work; I overheard him talking to his sister at the diner. Ernie the E.M.T came in and told him. Joe left before he ordered.” Sharon spoke and the gossip collected at the corners of her mouth and she began to look rabid.
“I suppose it was because he flaked on work that he hadn’t found out earlier. No one knew what he was up to today.” Harry figured she was comfortable talking about such a tragedy as it were a soap opera and he slowly became interested; this would be of use later when his own wife began on this subject. “That is it! It must be...why else wouldn’t anyone tell him? They couldn’t find him. But...” Carl stood up and made a wall of his body to end his wife’s sentence and to show that there was business to attend.

“Let’s go look at that plant you conjured up Harr-y, it’s in the back greenhouse for the last of today’s sun.” Carl was placing his glass on the porch-rail while Sharon was shaking her head at him, looking at Harry. He knew she was going to complain later saying that she had placed the table there so things could go ON it rather than the floor. Harry stood and nodded to Sharon his good-bye and followed Carl to the rear greenhouse.

The air hit his face like a wet towel and the door slammed shut. Ahead of them, in the rear by the exhaust fan, what looked like a rosebush, climbed up a corner lined with lattice. Harry saw the softball sized flowers, only three had bloomed and each was a different colour. The highest was salmon colour with a butter-yellow trim; one tucked into the bush was white; and the last by the base was dull orange with lavender edges. All of the flowers were the exact colours and detail that Harry had requested. “You’re amazing...” sighed Harry. “This was pretty difficult...” Carl scratched the short-brown hair on his head. “But you did it. I don’t care how...” “No one ever does...” Carl interjected before Harry could finish. “I didn’t mean that I didn’t care; I’m interested, and if you can tell me. Explain, I will nod politely and even possibly ask questions, but understand...no; I bake.” “That’s more than anyone’s offered before, so I’ll assume that’s a thank you in addition to payment.” Carl smiled and scratched his palm. Harry couldn’t do anything but chuckle and be awed by the foliage in front of him. He took out the money he had set aside, rummaged through the other back pocket and added a few more bills to the crinkled stack he was handing over.

“A bit more than we agreed...” Carl counted it twice more to confirm that there was more than expected. “If we tip waitresses for correctly writing our orders...” Harry shrugged “I think science-tricks deserve their share.” He then gave a smile that was intended for Carl but never made it passed the bush.

“It’s a little bigger than i thought...”Harry hesitated hoping Carl wouldn’t think the extra money was payment for a favor that was about to be asked. “Would you mind me hitching a ride back to my place?” “Let me check when lunch will be ready...it’s close to four already.” and with that Carl left for the house. Harry decided best he begin moving the bush from where it was to the front of the property, knowing Carl was telling his wife he’d be back shortly.

The entire thing wasn’t so much heavy as it was awkward and the image of himself trying to bicycle somehow to his house was enough to make him laugh. He tucked the pot in between the peddles of the bike and rested his hand against the lattice. Carl emerged a few minutes later driving his little red pick-up truck, which was as dirty and wrecked as its driver. He pulled to a stop a couple of feet in front of Harry.

There are ties in the bed to strap the bush, your bike will just have to lay down.” he placed the truck in park as he spoke and looked in the rear-view mirror checking once more that the back of the vehicle was cleared. “Fine by me... I was expecting to come back for it tomorrow morning.” “No need. It should fit.”

His demeanor was more relaxed as Harry watched through the rear window. It was as though Sharon had forgiven him for spending so much time in the greenhouses and with this forgiveness came an immense relief that left him lighter in his movements. It could easily have been that talk of the accident, for whatever reason, was known to be off limit, and any further conversing of it would be forbidden in his house. Thinking nothing more of it Harry happily hopped into the truck.

The drive to Harry’s home wasn’t very lengthy, ten minutes at most, and both men seemed satisfied to sit in his own daydream. As Harry stepped from the truck the sun was lower in the sky, still a foot or two from the tops of the trees. Carl put the vehicle in park while Harry removed his items; leaving his bike against the mailbox then carrying the bush to the back yard. Carl waited until Harry had made his way back to the truck then asked if there was anything else he could help with.

“No. I think everything is alright Carl, thank you. I’ll drop some bakeries off for you and Sharon Monday. Until then my friend...” Harry raised his hand as Carl honked heading down Frankford, back home to lunch and a happy wife.

Harry took from his pocket the rope he used to tie his bicycle and did so while admiring the garden Emily had arranged. Her original plan involved a small circle of tulips around the mailbox although it had to be altered for Harry to be able to lock his bike. The outcome was eight feet of cherry red tulips leading to wild flowers that replaced any grass in the front lawn. There were two paths, one led to the front door and the other to an arbor as the entrance to the rear yard. The wild seed they had planted had grown into massive body height and hid the traveler of the path nearly to their shoulders.

The rear yard was simple, basing itself around the slow world around it. There was a porch that was a complete half-circle and a small garage in the back. There were no neighbors so there were no fences, only an acre or so of grassy field before the woods began. The bush sat on the porch at the top of the steps; the old flowers hushed and closed, new silver-grey and white ones were slipping out of sleep. Harry bent to examine it closer; worried the other flowers had dies, and found them healthy; stuck in a slumber until the next day.

He walked towards the door noticing white flakes missing from the skin of the house; which had scabs of brown wood littering its sides. The entire house had a citrus glow, the sun setting a crossed the street and his keys clanked in his hand as he felt the doorknob unlock and placed them in his pocket.

Emily was placing a large bowl of fruit salad and a smaller bowl of yogurt on the dinning table as Harry entered. She was smiling, her lips fitting perfectly into her laugh lines, her eyes meeting his then skipping passed to the bush. “So, do you like it?” He was eying the fruit more than if he had eaten lunch earlier in the day. “Like what?” She looked down at her dish as peaches and pears fell onto it. “I thought it was a lovely poem and that you should begin writing again. And the garden bouquet smelled great first thing in the morning.” He moved behind her and guided her eyes to the porch. He knew she had already seen it, but that didn’t mean he had given it to her yet.

“A rosebush?” Emily was confused knowing her husband despised the scent of rose. “i hate roses, you know that.” And in fact she did know this.

“Let’s take our plates to the porch, you should smell the flowers.” He was still holding his arm around her waist knowing he had to let go in order for them to move, but struggling to do so. “Outside then?” Harry knew he had to let go and did and was amazed at how embracing her always felt wonderful and through their aging she only became more magnetic. She walked out ahead of him, Harry served himself a helping and watched as she gently lifted a silver flower; dipping her face to greet it.

“They’re...” “Moonflowers, dear” Harry interrupted as he stepped onto the porch. “The stems and thorns...a rosebush” she was staring, touching, smelling the flowers in awe. The colours weren’t characteristic of either plant though there were traits of rose and moonflowers.

“Carl is a genius. Give him the idea and he’ll make it tangible.” Harry was crouched down beside the bush and his wife, scratching his chin lightly. “All i did was tell him the colours, the types of flowers and some small details, and then let him do his business.” He was shaking his head inspecting a leaf. At the mention of Carl her lips flattened, clamped down on her smile until it was just a closed mouth; her eyes shut quickly.

“So you heard about Amie.” He wasn’t looking forward to this anymore. A few hours ago it seemed like a nectar he could save on his lips and scent his words with, this gossip, news, was something he could share with Emily; though the coincidence of it happening on their anniversary made it taboo, sacrilegious. “Do you remember Dave?” He was horrendous when it came to recalling someone’s name, and every one was always quick to quiz him on this handicap. “The deputy that just moved here from Clearwater.” Her kind face was patient as he flung photographs around in his mind. “YES!” Harry exclaimed excitedly, finding the snapshot of the man. “He’s the one who came in wanting an egg and taylor sandwich.” That was about a month ago. Some scrawny kid with dark sun-glasses. He kept his arms crossed in front of his chest, and when Harry had informed him of a deli not too far away, the man dropped his hat and revealed the crown of his head bald and dusty from the inside of his hat. Harry had apologized for just being a coffee shop and the man left. That was the only time Harry had in order to remember the man’s name and face.

After realizing the man Harry slipped into a calm stillness and Emily knew he was having one of his memories, and sat smelling the flowers; pushing grapes around on her plate curious about her own appetite. A piece of melon slid in between her teeth lacking the satisfaction that she thought it would bring. “Yes; well him.” she pushed a wing of silver hair behind her ear. “He didn’t stop in the shop today, did he?” Emily was looking out into the yard. “No, but he isn’t a regular.” Harry glanced up at the sky and sighed a little, enough to settle the fact that they would not have a picnic, but tiny, to hide his discontent from his wife. “They had a fight this morning, Amie and Joe...” “Ah, yeah, Sharon said that. Something she over heard at the diner.” Harry threw in the middle of her sentence. “Well, apparently the argument was over Dave. Joe found that the two of them were sneaking around together. You can’t do those things in a small town.” Emily paused for a second. “Dave went with her to the hospital.” Harry raised a little to sit on the bench beside her. He thought about the cowardice, or the fear, that people have in admitting that their marriage was faulty; about the way divorce sounds to one still in love, voiced by the beloved. He shook it off as a shiver and decided to say one last thing to further the progress, and hasten the end, of the conversation. “Joe didn’t find out until lunch.” There was a silence that fell from the night and rose from the soil, played in the soft notes of a breeze through grass and leaves.

“He isn’t the best guy, but that’s even too much for some one like him to have to go through.” She seemed concerned about emotions rather than the head trauma victim, still in a hospital bed. “What bothers you Emily?” “They’re so young. Already they have nearly lost that and now they even lost love.” She wasn’t crying but she was sniffling as she said it. Harry thought about it for awhile, drawing circles on the back of her hand with his index finger, but came to no strong conclusion. Only the same outcome: That’s what life can bring.

The moon was out, hung lonely in the field, no stars to shine beside it. The flowers had fully awakened and one in particular stood out to Harry. The flower naturally looked like a trumpet but this one, this single flower had such a deep silver colour that it looked like an aged and wise trumpet; only the best notation passed through its body. He figured it was the chill in the air, the mood swaddling them both; it was only because of this that the trumpet had to be tarnished. Somehow he knew a smooth clean horn wouldn’t be able to blow the tune he was thinking. “The young girl with the silly t-shirts came in today.” It was a cheerful enough conversation to slip into along the linguistic-voyage destined for happiness. “I know she imagined me as the Baker in the Three Men in a Tub tale. It’s all because of that apron i just HAVE to wear.” “You do not! You look CUTE.” Emily smiled and kissed him on the cheek. She noticed the warmth of his blood passing through his face and chuckled: “Only an old man like you could worry about such a thing Harry” and she took his hand into hers. “Well...” he paused and thought a second; “working, taking the train to school and cramming your head everyday might lead to some delusions. Especially if you throw life on top of that.” Harry snickered a fool-type laugh at his rationalization and held Emily’s hand as he rose to lean against the railing. “Can i give you your present now?” She looked towards the garage as she spoke. Emily stood and without giving Harry the chance to answer grabbed his hands to lead the way.
“Well; i guess i’ll say yes!” He was laughing as he straightened out his legs. “And i suppose we’re headed to the garage.”

The garage was a mediocre structure that sheltered old appliances that had seized or became dysfunctional in some way over the years. It was organized; Harry had a repairman who would come out and see if any of the parts could be of use, and this usually kept Harry in line as to cleaning and making sure everything was proper. Some of the machines were old, far beyond old, and they served more as an anchor, the beginning of a timeline, than any use for the repairman. Others were more recent. It didn’t matter now though, Harry hadn’t seen the gentleman in nearly a year, and not being friends but being routine, Harry thought the worst about the man. A year and the garage was still up-kept and stocked; in case the man ever came back. Emily stepped aside to allow Harry to walk inside first. He entered and immediately tripped over something on the floor, sending the object clattering against an old oven. The room was clean and the foreign object made it certain that Emily had been inside rearranging his stock. “Sorry.” Squeaked Emily; half in excitement and the other from a breeze that had raised her skirt a little way.

Harry made it to the center of the room where a light bulb hung from the ceiling...He clicked the light on and while his eyes adjusted to the new brightness was tapped in the face by the swaying metal chain he had released. His eyes scanned the room for something that he didn’t recognize as being part of his usual, and slowly increasing, inventory. The entire garage had been observed and he was returning his attention to where Emily stood when he say the two bicycle standing in front of her; both rested against their kick-stands. “You kicked your water bottle over behind that stove. I’m not quite sure how it managed to get on the ground.” She was pointing to the left rear corner of the room. “Does this mean i’ll have company on my rides?” He was smiling, watching the shine from the handle bars as he circled closer. “It means more visits at work too!” His first instinct was to dash and hug his wife but the lure of a new bicycle was too much and he sat lightly on the cushioned seat. He remembered the last time he had gotten a “brand new” bike and came back to the one in front of him without any memory of ever had. The grips smelled like rubber and the metal frames still had its glossy-oil coating that the manufacturers spray, giving the bike a GLEAM as they sat in store windows.

He kissed her on a yellow patch of grass near the doorway; they wrapped their arms around each other’s waist standing in a long and glorious embrace. Harry reached out a hand to the garage wall and flicked out the lights (with a switch only capable of turning the light “off”).

As they made their way, slowly, still embraced, Harry pulled his watch from his pocket and saw it was after midnight. He smiled and placed a kiss on Emily’s cheekbone, satisfied with the end result of the day. He quickly thought about Joe and Sharon; Mrs. Smitz for an instant in her garden; Carl and his abstract horticulture; Emily swaggering alongside of him; then brought his attention to a dilemma he would face again. Harry stepped onto the porch following Emily and watched her step through the door; he had come to a strong conclusion that there is love, but still did not know whether to clear everything off of his tables at the end of each night.