The Greenhouse

Fourteen

I can’t really say that I’m in a decent enough physical state to be able to sleep with anyone at the moment. To be honest, I’d probably prefer the gardening book to take precedence over the girl right now. But can I say no, I’m sorry? Wouldn’t that offend her and make what follows pretty awkward?

— Did you bring plants? she asks pointing at the rose cuttings in the hospital cups on the windowsill.

— Yeah, those are rose cuttings from the greenhouse back home, I say. I’m taking them to the garden.

— Does it have a special name, the rose?

— Yeah, eight-petaled rose.

— Where does this interest in plants come from? she asks.

— I was more or less brought up in a greenhouse, I feel good in flower beds.

I imagine her interest in gardening is limited and realize that, since I can’t really think of anything else to talk about, I might be forced to take our communication to another level, beyond words. I’m facing two options here: to do or not to do. The question is, when exactly does the decision time run out? In five minutes, ten minutes, or has it maybe already expired? I take off my watch and stretch over her to put it on the bedside table. My confirmation mate is awake and staring at me with big eyes; it’s difficult to actually figure out what’s going through her mind. Not that it makes much difference, my mind is just as foggy and unclear.