Not so very long ago, I got my heart broken. Again. And as they often do in times of such upheaval, my thoughts turned toward Nevada. I make a moth-line to the bright lights of Las Vegas when I need to flit and flutter among other people, but I scuttle off to Reno when the situation dictates that I'd best cocoon myself. I had hand on mouse and credit card typed in to book my tickets when sense came scrabbling to the surface - missing him and my grown-from-seed tomatoes at the same time would be just too much to bear.
I stayed in Brooklyn, and lucky thing I did, as I spent the bulk of the ensuing weekend battling back a nasty and garden-wide bout of late blight. I sat on my fire escape until daylight, diseased leaves and branches crumbling in my hands like teeth falling out in a fever dream. I was at the doors of the garden store the moment they opened in the morning, and at home in a matter of minutes, dousing all visible foliage with a fairly serious copper fungicide. The plants bounded back. The gentleman in question, sadly, did not. Such is the plight of the garden ho'.
Truth be told, he never fully understood my rabid devotion to my scrappy container veg assemblage. Never truly grasped that even though the Datil peppers are never going to answer back, they're infinitely happier when sung little ditties about the Scoville heat index. And yes - the okra will be much more pleased with me if I pop home to water it in the midday blaze, and we wait to take in a later movie screening. He often accused me of anthropomorphizing. There are worse crimes against the world. I've certainly managed to cultivate love and lettuce at the same time without either withering. If nothing else, he's cheated himself out of heirloom tomato salad and freshly-picked arugula there for the asking. To hell with the loss of my company - the lack of ready produce is punishment enough. Or so I tell myself.