The Florist, passage

Spring draws out, plants bloom and I become a ship full of holes. One day I decide that it would be better to live in the greenhouse; rather wake out here in glorious sunshine, burning away anything that might harm me, than in the house, a black pit of lightless solitude. Rachel: my recurring nightmare, my inescapable commitment.

‘I want to sleep in the greenhouse, I feel as though I’ll get more done and I’ll be happier,’ I drawl it all out in a monotonous announcement. I couldn’t even tell whether she heard me, I didn’t know which part of the house to address.

I slept throughout the first two nights with no interruption. On the third, the Buddleia growing across the outside corner of the greenhouse swung in an efflorescent purple sleeve. Grasping with this one tendril, the plant heaved itself inside the greenhouse and slumped next to me, adopting a position similar to that of a sitting person. I ran cold with sweat, but could feel nothing but excitement. I felt its voice hum and bounce within my chest. I swallowed its words intently,

‘You’ve got the right idea, coming in here,’ it waved an arm, thick with flowers, towards the house,

‘You know what you’re gonna have to do, don’t you?’ ‘I mean, you must be thinking about it all the time!’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m following you,’ I sensed a nasty feeling, brewing somewhere in the greenhouse, salivating beyond all sight.

‘You’re going to have to make another kind of commitment,’ ‘You care for us, sure, but you need to do more than that...'