In the parking lot of Thrive & Blossom, I scratched the stubble on my neck that I had been too lazy to shave away that morning. On my day off, I didn’t have time for such things. Any person would understand this. What I imagined they wouldn’t understand is why the backseat of my car resembled a graveyard, twisted branches of neglected plants piled on each other. Dirt had fallen through the holes of the planters and settled into the crevices of my seats. I knew it would remain there forever. 

I’d forgotten my receipt, but it was too late to go back home. I walked through the automatic doors of the nursery entrance, pushing a cart of death, my face melted with embarrassment. The plants were leaving a trail of earthen shame in their wake. Anyone who saw into the cart would know more about me than they should. 

The first sales associate I spotted was a young lady with a blonde pixie cut and a tan vest. She was feverishly scanning the barcodes on the bottom of the Alocasias, then pushed them toward the back of the shelf. She was determined to fit as many as she could, as fast as she could. Beep, squish. Beep, squish. It seemed aggressive for such temperamental plants, but I understood why: she was training them for their future with someone like me. 

Excuse me, miss?

Beep, squish.

It was rude that she pretended not to notice me. I’d arrived toward closing hours, but customer service was her job. Once you pass your forties, you become another man that blends in with men. Nothing special. Beep, squish.

I was now close enough to read her name tag: Mitch. Mitch was a boy. It was obvious now, but it was easy to be confused: his petite frame was bookended by delicate shoulders. People probably always made this mistake with Mitch, and he learned to ignore them until it corrected itself. It was unfortunate, but not my fault; he had a feminine shape. 

Excuse me, sir. I had said the magic word.

How can I help you?

A standard response, but his face was far from standard. He looked so naive that you felt you must provide him some form of comfort. Mitch had one of those faces you try not to stare at, but it just felt good. 

I looked at my plants and said, I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t keep anything alive. 

He looked at the plants and then at me. I felt guilty. First for the plants, then for thinking he was a girl. His face was unchanged but so forgiving. Was his silence letting me figure out the root of a problem that he already knew? Perhaps he wasn’t sure of what I was trying to gain from our exchange. I wasn’t entirely sure either. 

Maybe they’re sick of my love, I said. This happens with every living thing. I give the kind of love that smothers and kills. 

I must have sounded pathetic, but the sentiment felt relieving, like an admission of guilt. 

He put his scanner down. I could only read the beauty on his face. 

Plants are pretty forgiving, he said. 

But I did this. I overwhelmed them, I said. I picked up the smallest dead thing from my cart. I don’t want a bunch of little somethings that turn into nothing. 

You mean you just over-water them?
 

Why was I talking to Mitch like this? I remembered it was his job to listen—customer service—and I must have intuited this. Maybe he wasn’t trying to let me figure out the problem, but in a way, he had helped. He bit the inside of his cheek, and we shared a silence I felt he was trying to escape from. 

We can give you a full refund if you have your receipt. 

I thought if I just had the plants with me—

We can do an exchange. 

I now had a lot of jade, watch chain, and others I’d forgotten the name of. They were less eye-catching than the plants I previously had, but they would be easier to care for—Mitch assured me. 

The whole encounter with Mitch helped me gain a new perspective. Maybe this was the same approach I should take into my next chapter of life. 

It had been twelve—no, fourteen—years now since I’d shared my home with someone, a special someone. We’d had a beautiful time in the first half of our relationship, but the second half had been distant. I hadn’t only withdrawn from the relationship mentally; I’d withdrawn from the world. I needed a big change, so I looked at my career path and saw no collateral. My partner had advised against it, but I’d felt drawn to new things. He was ten years my senior, and when I tried to explain that I still felt young, I was accused of entering a midlife crisis. When his career had advanced, I’d been left starting over, and we both felt the weight of this—the imbalance of our lives, the imbalance of power in our home. He’d lost his patience and called me irritating with the same inflection he had used to describe the invasive elm that scratched relentlessly at our bedroom window. I’d taken hedge shears to it, but it’d grown back triple its size, keeping us from sleep. He said he’d handle it himself given my low effort, and called in a professional who worked well into the afternoon in cargo pants and a heather-gray tee that became dark and glued to his skin. My partner offered him a highball, and I watched from the den as the two sat in our lawn chairs chatting long enough for his tee to have regained structure, before they both drunkenly, giddily, hauled the limbs of the torn elm to the bed of his pickup, which seemed very unprofessional. My partner had gotten the best sleep of his life that night. From then on, everything I did became impulsive or impractical, and it was like walking on eggshells all the time until, one day, he dissolved the whole thing. He’d said he’d found a new place already, but I knew what he meant. 

Now, I needed someone who was easy-care. 

Mitch couldn’t have been a day over nineteen and I, well, I was at the age where I kept my hair cut short to prevent the grays from being the main attraction. 

I whispered to myself, Fifty-three. Nineteen. Fifty-three. Nineteen. 

The numbers seemed to be only words, and the more I whispered them, the more their meaning became lost and they sounded like gibberish. 

I tried to think of things I liked about myself, in case Mitch asked me the next time I saw him. I’ve got a decent jawline. Do I? If I lost some weight, it might show more. I’m pretty good at math. Only enough to help you with your taxes. That’s not sexy. His parents probably still claim him anyway. Teenagers aren’t easy-care. 

That night, I vowed to myself I wouldn’t turn people away based on my preconceived notions of them. Everyone was a candidate. The next time I saw Mitch, I would be ready. 

I suddenly felt a growing heaviness in my chest. I didn’t have much going for me, and I felt another crisis setting in. I needed change. 

When this starts to happen, I know it’s time to address my bad habits before I sink too low. But this time, I was going to follow through, at least long enough to show improvement in my life. No coffee. This was what I was doing. I was changing my life, and it started by not drinking coffee. 

I thought of other things I could do to make my life better. I set a reminder on my phone to go off every day at 7:00 a.m. that read, “Stretch. Do it for you.” I dug around in my coat closet, looking for a yoga mat I might still have. I found it and cleaned off the mice droppings and residue of some sticky old mess. It felt familiar, but I couldn’t remember what it was from. Then it hit me. Me. I’m the sticky old mess. 

I couldn’t tell if things were changing. I waited for a sign. People always say, Look for a sign, but if you start looking, you’ll find them everywhere, and they aren’t real signs—just your imagination giving you something to grasp onto. 

The next morning, I lay in bed waiting for the sign. The reminder went off on my phone. I didn’t feel compelled to stretch because I wasn’t sure I was doing it for myself, so I drank a cup of coffee while I thought about this. I decided it was all toward my betterment, so I’d do it tomorrow. 

I taught miscellaneous lessons to senior citizens at Davis Community Center. That day was my computer class, which I gave twice a week. It was basic computer skills and understanding, and some knew more about computers than I did, but I had to pretend they didn’t to keep my job and my dignity. For example, the class prior, Alfred, the eighty-three-year-old grandfather of an apparently well-known rower (because once you reach a certain age and haven’t achieved success, your distinguishing factors become that of your kin) had caught my slip-up. He’d said, Can’t I keep two windows open at the same time? To which I replied, No, Alfred, you can’t. Only one window can be open at a time, but I said it with such conviction that he’d thanked me for correcting him. The first thing I did when the class emptied out—which had felt extra-long because elderly people move slower the more you think about how slow they move—was try it out. And sure enough, Alfred had been right. 

I had retained just the right amount of embarrassment from this that I wished Alfred would never show his face in class again. I hoped Alfred had died—peacefully, because I wasn’t a monster—in the early morning of his sleep, with yellow light splashing his face and birds chirping as a reminder that the world must still carry on. His rowing grandchild would be flying in for the funeral now.

I felt very guilty for having these thoughts, so I rushed to the stacked newspapers on my dining table to scan over the obituaries. No Alfred. Which meant he’d be in class. I’d be ready. If he challenged me again, I’d have to pull him to the side and have a word about his behavior. I’d make sure that if he felt he knew more, he could take over the lesson from there. 

I took my time backing out of the driveway. I sat with the hum of my car, thinking about why I continued to work at such a boring, slightly-above-minimum-wage job. 

I came to the conclusion that no promotions meant I was already in the highest position in my field. My own boss. Except for the community center organizers, but what did they know about my job? I was a master of my craft in their eyes—and in my students’. The elderly weren’t really that boring either. They were great storytellers even though logical chunks of their stories were missing. If anything, it just made them better. And as a bonus, I could fart freely and easily blame it on someone else, which was helpful as someone with IBS. 

It’s not like there were many work opportunities for someone my age without a degree, a limited skill set, and only a fairly decent jawline. And this feeling of being a true intellect in a group of elders—retired doctors, teachers, and veterans—kept me feeling young and important. At least that’s what I imagined they’d done for their careers. I’d never bothered to ask. 

I walked into my class that morning knowing there was no way Alfred could bring me down. I was getting off on this feeling of superiority, so we went over some complicated material—like deleting our browser history—to keep the rush alive. Not only was this concept new for them, but when I explained what you could use it for, they nearly had a stroke. 

Ted, the most lively in my class, was especially excited about using this feature but held back because he took my class with his wife. He asked many questions and wanted detailed answers, so I knew he probably needed this lesson the most. The internet is a place where you can keep your mind young and dirty. I walked him through it a couple of times. 

Alfred was having an off day. He was usually quick-paced and witty, but he was having difficulty following the lesson. It was a shame because I had rehearsed in my head how I would pull him aside in so many different scenarios. The thought felt wasted. He asked for extra help in that humble way of his that I regretted wishing him dead before. 

I told him, Well, I guess I have some free time this afternoon to tutor you, but the computer lab will be locked and I don’t have keys. 

When I said this, I felt like I’d demoted myself, so I had to correct it. 

They’re making me new keys because someone broke in last week and they had to change the lock. It was a big inconvenience. 

I hope nothing was taken, he said. 

Nothing expensive. 

He had such concern, I almost felt bad for lying. He offered his home and one hundred dollars for the lesson. He had a different computer than those at the lab, and it would help him to learn on his own. I agreed this was a good idea, but I didn’t tell him it was because I didn’t even have my own computer. 

That evening, as I pulled up to Alfred’s, I wasn’t particularly excited about it. He must have been the retired vet, judging by the size of his house. They never take care of the vets. His house was quaint-looking. He must have been watching from the window because he greeted me before I got to the door. 

When I followed him inside, I was struck by the sheer quantity of tropical plants strewn around his home with such delicacy. How were they so well taken care of? He’d taken up this hobby after his wife died. They required constant maintenance, but it was important to her in life, so it was important to him. 

Sacrifice. This was what these plants needed to thrive. Not an overabundance of love, but one that was true in its entirety, that came from the self, so that it could be extended outward and received. 

My attention was diverted to the framed newspaper clippings that hung on his wall of a decorated rower. 

This must be your grandson? 

I immediately realized it couldn’t have been because of the aged paper. He pointed to a more recent photo of a female rower. 

This is my granddaughter. And this was me in my youth. 

He pointed back to the old clippings. 

I’d never taken him as being an athlete in his day, especially not a well-celebrated one. Now the granddaughter he had trained up was following in his path. What an accomplishment. 

I didn’t like the feeling this stirred up. It bordered on jealousy. I wanted to feel that same success. I wanted to be him, covered in medals. I also wanted to be the granddaughter, continuing tradition while making someone proud. I wanted to be both of them at the same time, training myself to have this success and passing it down to different generations of me over and over again. I was never going to have children, so this made sense. 

He showed me his study, which was just a desk in the corner of his living room with an almost-out-of-date computer monitor sitting on it. The room was dingy and smelled faintly of mildew. He turned on his desk lamp, the kind with the green shade you’d find in a library that instantly made the space feel classier. It illuminated the undisturbed dust and hundred-dollar bill on the desk. I knew it had been a very long time since anyone had sat here, let alone visited Alfred at all. 

He offered me a bourbon and a seat at the desk. One doesn’t turn down a bourbon that is offered to them as dusk settles in. Alfred preferred to stand because sitting was bad for his knees. His knees. My knees. I must have been so young compared to him. Thirty years held so much time. I felt the difference more than he could, but my knees didn’t. I booted up the computer. 

As I walked him through turning on his desktop and opening the browser, he refilled our glasses and leaned over, propping himself with one forearm on the desk and the other on the back of my chair as he grazed my shoulder with his chest. Of course, he needed to be close to the monitor to see. I scooted over slightly, but the wheels on the rug made this almost impossible. 

I noticed the hair in his ear that was millimeters from my cheek. Thirty years my senior. Thirty percent more hair. I touched my ear because I suddenly had the tingling sensation that mine had sprouted a jungle. Just the beginning of a garden, but I could accept this. 

As I searched random things to add to his browser history, he placed his hand on top of mine. I figured he was trying to memorize the movements, but after we clicked “delete” in tandem, he intertwined his fingers with mine. It became more difficult to control the mouse like this, but I made it work. 

I felt him pushing the desk chair with his crotch, eventually pinning me between his weight and the desk. His ear was almost tickling my cheek. He brought his hand to my face in that humble way of his and turned my face to look at him. It felt like he was telling me, I’ll never understand computers, and I’m okay with that. 

I knew as his teacher I shouldn’t be, but I was okay with that too. He brought his lips to mine. What a sad man. 

I felt bad for him as he slid his tongue toward the back of my mouth—and I felt just as bad for myself as I kissed him back, deeply. The two feelings canceled out and were obscured like dust coating us, his desk, his plants, our lives.

He slowly spun the chair around and brought me to my feet. We were both two lonely men, and this was so recognizable that all we could do was fill the lonely holes of the other. 

I slid my hand down his crepey abdomen to find remnants of a fit body. My hand started undoing his belt as if it were my own, as if my hand were programmed to do so. I wondered if his cock would give me some example of what mine would look like in time—if he’d recognize mine as what had once been his. He’d praise my fifty-three-year-old cock, unable to understand the loss he felt that came with aging. Everyone was a candidate. 

I woke up in his bed to the reminder on my phone, “Stretch. Do it for you,” with the feeling of not knowing where I was. It was so dark. I opened the curtain, and yellow light splashed Alfred’s face. His lips were purple. I opened the window to let in the sound of birds, except their music felt distant and made me feel that the world had stopped right there. When had he taken his last breath? Shortly after we made love? Toward the early morning? How long had I been sleeping next to him while he was like this? 

I opened the address book that sat below his landline. He had a landline. Anyone that still had a landline already had a foot out the door. It was a reassuring thought. 

I was impressed with how calm I was. I felt that my lungs were sucking in more oxygen than average, and it gave me a calculated high. It must have been from the many plants. 

I called the granddaughter, Steph. She’d take care of it. I walked back into Alfred’s room, slipped his underwear on him, remembered to grab the hundred-dollar bill from the desk, and left. 

By evening, I remembered I hadn’t shut the window and thought I’d better go do that, then decided this wasn’t a good idea. One window open at a time, Alfred. 

Alfred’s funeral was a week later. Plants of various species outlined his hole in the ground. Steph gave a eulogy. I recognized her right away from the photos: blonde, mid-twenties, and the largest shoulders of a woman or man that I’d ever seen. I didn’t remember Alfred’s shoulders being that large—a loss of bone density. 

I introduced myself to her after the funeral as the person who had notified her of Alfred’s expiration. It was a strange way to introduce yourself to someone. She thanked me and asked what I was doing at her grandfather’s house so early in the morning. This was a normal question to ask someone who discovers a body. It wasn’t out of suspicion, but rather out of curiosity. Still, it took everything I had to subdue a defense mechanism. Why, out of all the people in his wheelhouse, was I the one who happened to stumble upon his deathbed? I wasn’t guilty of anything, other than being his last lover. 

I was there for a private computer lesson, I told her. This was enough of an answer and the most truth I could muster, so I left it at that. She asked if I was going back to his house for refreshments and hors d’oeuvres. My answer was always no, but I took a moment to make it seem like I was considering this proposal before I politely let myself off the hook. 

Thinking about being back in that lonely house, which now seemed more like a shell than a home, left me feeling agitated. Who would notice my fingerprints left in the dust on his desk and mistake them for Alfred’s? I imagined distant cousins mourning the loss of such a man; feeling his presence in those fingerprints. In reality, they’d unknowingly feel the weight of our two bodies pressed together and mistake the smell of sweet sex and sweaty old men for that of mildew. Maybe I should go shut the window. It had probably already been closed. 

I gave a brief hello and goodbye to my students who were in attendance, but a familiar young face caught my eye. 

At first glance, it was a young woman until I recognized the boy who stood biting the inside of his cheek. Mitch. 

Alfred must have had a thing for younger men. I tried to picture the two together, but Mitch was so much younger that I couldn’t imagine him willingly sleeping with someone as old as Alfred. My invention of their night together quickly made Alfred out to be a predator. Mitch—still so naive. 

I wondered how often Alfred went to Thrive & Blossom. He must have been a regular, of course. Not a predator. I made eye contact with Mitch and gave him a friendly nod, but he didn’t recognize me. Bad customer service. 

I realized that Steph was waiting for me to leave so she could get to her grandfather’s house as people were surely already arriving. I felt I had taken on the role of the mourning mistress, but tried not to make that too obvious to Alfred’s real family. I was the last to be with him in life, I should be the last to see him covered in cold dirt. 

Beautiful service, I said. This was what people say to excuse themselves from a funeral. 

Thank you. We’re so thankful for the donation from Thrive & Blossom, it really made a difference. He had such a good thumb. 

A green thumb, I corrected her.

Yes, a green thumb.

What are you going to do with all these plants? I asked.

I can’t take them with me. I was just going to leave them here. 

On the way home, I couldn’t see out the back of my car. Life sprouted from the windows and would inevitably cushion any impact the foliage itself would cause. As I got closer to my house, I felt that I had a renewed energy for life. A bunch of little nothings that turned into something.

Two months later, I got a phone call in the early morning. It was Steph. 

She was back in town cleaning out her grandfather’s house and asked if I wanted his computer. I let her know it was a generous offer, but no thank you. She could try to sell it, but wouldn’t get much for it. 

She asked if she called at a bad time. She must have heard how out of breath I was. 

No, not at all. You just caught me during my morning stretch.

Training for something?

No. I just do it for myself.

She wanted to know if I’d like to grab coffee with her while she was in town. She’d been dealing with a lot, going through her grandfather’s memories and all—it’d be nice to take a break. 

I liked the idea of seeing her again, so I told her I would love a cup of tea. I’d be free in an hour, after I vacuumed my car.

She asked if I was enjoying the plants from the service. 

They’re thriving, I said. Absolutely beautiful and have really brought life into my home.

This was a lie because they had all died shortly after the funeral. 

I thought about Steph’s strong shoulders. I wanted her to embrace me tightly with them and let me struggle to free myself. I needed to know what they were capable of. Everyone was a candidate. 

My legs were spread wide in the only stretch I knew. It was difficult and painful and I counted to ten. I was thriving.