The Greenhouse

Fifteen

Then there’s also the fact that one can’t always remember everything one does, so that when one wakes up and sees a head of curly hazel hair on the other side of the bed, one has to start off by checking who’s under the quilt. Not that I’d like to give the impression that I often get into the situation of not remembering exactly who is lying under the covers with me. In the case of my childhood friend, however, my recollection of yesterday evening and night are quite clear. She is still asleep, but I manage to climb over her and slip out of the bed without waking her. I feel dizzy when I stand up but manage to swiftly get into my trousers. Then I go down to the bakery to buy some breakfast for Thórgun. I also feel the need to thank her, so I buy some flowers, a pink potted plant. After that I really need to get going.

She’s already up by the time I get back and sticks her head out of the kitchen. She’s in a semi-long patterned skirt garment over her blue jeans and wearing a coat, as if she’s about to leave at that very moment. She’s put her glasses back on so I feel secure again. I have to admit I was a bit surprised she was about to leave without saying good-bye. I hand her the bag from the bakery and the potted plant. It’s a dahlia.

— I got something to eat with the coffee, I say.

— Thanks, she says, sniffing the plant.

It’s almost odorless; maybe I should have chosen something with a stronger scent.

— It should be OK on its own for a few days, I say, while you’re digging up graveyards.

— How’s your wound? she asks.

— Much better, almost normal again, I say. I speak the truth, although I still have to be careful when I’m zipping up my fly.

My schoolmate says she has to dash. Still, she peeks into the bakery bag and chooses some kind of glazed doughnut, although she says she doesn’t have time for breakfast.

— I have a class to get to, she says, still holding the pot, so I’ll just say bon voyage and all the best on your journey to the promised garden with your eight-petaled roses.

— Thanks a lot for putting me up, I say. I take the potted plant from her and place it on the kitchen table. Then I put my arms around her and pat her once or twice down the back. Finally I adjust her scarf, wrapping it better around her neck.

— Thanks again, I repeat.

— I don’t want to hold you up, she says, quickly getting her things together, shoving books into her bag, and fetching something from the bathroom. Then she gives me a hasty kiss and slowly moves along the wall toward the door. She pauses in front of the mirror a moment to check her reflection and adjust the clasp in her thick, curly hair. This means she’s about to leave but has still left something unsaid. She lingers in the doorway holding the glazed doughnut she’s going to eat on her way to the archaeological museum.

— Maybe you’re not particularly into women?

The question completely throws me. How should I answer? Should I say yes I am, but not into every woman on the planet? Would my friend be offended by that? Or should I just say things as they are? That up until this morning I just haven’t accumulated enough experience to pass any verdicts on that? Or should I use the state of my body to justify myself and once more show her the black stitches protruding from my groin. That way I could say:

— Yeah, but not with the stitches.

— Don’t take it personally, my confirmation sister says, with one foot through the door. The archaeology student is wearing high leather boots with heels.

I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table as I get my stuff together and make the bed: it takes me about four minutes.