The sun had dipped below the roofline of the old country club, painting the patio in soft shades of amber and rose. He’d been sitting there for an hour, nursing a bourbon neat—his usual—while watching the last of the day’s golfers trudge off the 18th green. It was the kind of evening that felt like a throwback, the air cool but not crisp, the sound of a distant piano drifting over from the clubhouse bar. Then she’d walked over, her sandals clicking lightly on the stone tiles, and slid into the chair across from him without asking. He knew her—Marge, the woman who volunteered at the library down the street, the one who always wore those floral dresses that looked like they’d been plucked from a 1950s catalog. They’d chatted a handful of times, small talk about books and the weather, but nothing more. Until tonight.
She’d been asking about his garden—he’d mentioned last week that his tomatoes were finally starting to ripen—and he’d been rambling on about the trouble he’d had with aphids, when she suddenly leaned forward. Not just a little lean, the kind you do when you want to hear someone better. Too close. Close enough that he could smell the lavender in her hair, faint but distinct, and see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Her elbow rested on the edge of the table, her hand propping up her chin, and when she spoke, her voice dropped to a whisper—even though the patio was nearly empty, even though there was no one around to overhear. “You know,” she said, and her breath hit his ear first, warm and soft, before the words followed, “I’ve always thought a man who tends a garden is… something else. Takes patience. Care. The kind of things that matter.” Her breath lingered, too—slow, deliberate, like she wasn’t in a hurry to pull away. He felt it on the shell of his ear, then on his jawline, a gentle tickle that made his fingers tighten around his glass.
He tried to play it casual, a habit he’d picked up back in his 20s when he was still trying to impress women. “Yeah?” he said, a low, gruff sound that came out a little shakier than he’d intended. “Never thought gardening was that interesting to anyone but me.” She smiled then, a slow, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes—the kind of smile that told him she knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t lean back. If anything, she inched closer, and now he could feel the fabric of her dress brush against his forearm, light as a feather. “Oh, it’s not the gardening,” she whispered, her lips so close to his ear he could almost feel them brush his skin. “It’s the man doing it. The way you talk about those tomatoes like they’re your kids. The way you lean down to check them, like you’re keeping a secret with the dirt.” Her breath lingered again, warmer this time, and he found himself leaning in, too—just a fraction, enough to let her know he was paying attention. “You ever think about sharing that garden with someone?” she asked, her whisper softening, almost playful. “Someone who’d help you pick those tomatoes… and maybe stay for dinner after?” He felt his chest warm up, a feeling he hadn’t had in years—not since his wife passed, not since he’d stopped thinking about romance altogether. He set his glass down, his eyes never leaving hers, and smiled back. “I might,” he said. “Depends on who’s asking.” She laughed, a low, throaty sound, and finally leaned back—just a little—leaving the ghost of her breath on his ear, and a question hanging in the air that he was already eager to answer.