About Mimosa
by Syd McGinley
27 pages
/ 13500 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-800-5, 1-60370-800-6
Available file types - lit, pdf, prc
After a one-night stand goes disastrously wrong, city boy Nick, print-shop manager and ex-bantam-weight boxer, struggles to come back to a full life. His friends don't understand how devastated he is, his family disowned him long ago, and his co-workers have a "don't ask" truce with him.
Nick drops out of his old friends' circles, but, lonely and afraid of never trusting the world again, Nick forces himself to take daytrips. On one he meets country boys Matt, garden center owner and laid back sexual top, who wants Nick in his life, if only Nick can ever trust enough to let him in -- literally and figuratively.
Sample
Yesterday started so well, but somehow we rubbed each other wrong. Matthew was going to spend the night with me: it shouldn’t be such a big deal, but his reciprocal holdout (I can’t help seeing it that way) is rarely to let me sleep beside him. Whatever we do in the evening, I still go home most nights. He won’t say so out loud, but sleeping beside him has to be earned. Besides, I do need my morning routine: my workout, my long shower, my commute to the print shop. They all matter in keeping me safe. But some nights, that ride feels so long and cold.
Once in a while I can talk him into letting his crew open the Saturday shift alone, and he’ll come into town after Friday closing. We’ll see a movie together and get Indian food. He’s not a yokel; he just loves his Garden Center. When he gets here, before he’ll do anything to me, he’ll spend an hour fussing over my plants: trimming, watering, putting in little fertilizer spikes, dusting…
“Plants get rained on,” said Matt the first time, and gave me a mister next time I visited him. I do know basic plant care, but it hadn’t occurred to me plants need cleaning. He’d frowned at me. “God Nick, how can they breathe? No wonder that philodendron was so lifeless.” He stared just long enough; I was busted with my trick. My other plants are doing much better than that sacrificial lamb. The number of plants in my flat still looks excessive to a fresh eye, but there are only thirty left now. I’ve managed to move twenty to “my” office in Matt’s cottage since I first asked him to rescue the philodendron.
My place is neat and clean, but plants grow in dirt for heaven’s sake--why should I have thought to dust them? He’ll stretch the cleaning to tease me. I’ve tried impatience. Once I accused him of tormenting me. He just gave a mild smile, and said, “Nick, they’re your plants; of course I care about them. Why don’t you use that fancy froth machine of yours and make your guest a coffee?”
The first time I stuck out my tongue, but now I always make him cappuccino, and mutter to myself that it’s my own fault for having so many houseplants and a gardener for a boyfriend. I’ve teased him about being a self-sufficiency nut. He just looked at me and smiled. “Sure I eat from the garden--I’m too busy to shop, Nick. Besides, you do that now.”
“You need a goat. Oh, and bees. Then you’d be all set…”
He shook his head. “Ah Nick, you’re so naïve. You’d be ordering pizza in a week, and getting mad when they won’t deliver so far out.”
I shrugged. That was unfair--I never order pizza--and, if he’s trying to get me to move in, counter-productive. I saw him in my peripheral vision sneaking up, and I made a mock escape attempt.
“Gotcha,” said Matthew. “Nick: goats are a pain in the ass. Dad had one. I hate goat milk.”
I wriggled a little in his embrace, but he hates fuss, so I winked and said, “I was thinking of what to do with the milk and honey.”
Next time I came down, I brought my microwave strapped to the back of my Lambretta. It was a scary ride: it threw me more off balance than I expected. I ignored his raised eyebrows, and said, “zapped pizza is fine with me.” It wasn’t that daring: the spare room office was already “Nick’s office” and full of my plants. It had started with me bringing the neglected philodendron down. Matthew had agreed it could live on the office windowsill while he pampered it. When I’d brought down another plant, he asked, “Did you think it was lonely, Nick?”
“It looks silly being the only plant in your place.”
“And you have them to spare,” he said as dry as the tortured earth in the first plant.
Now we play a game: I sneak a plant into his place, and we pretend it’s been there all along. Maybe blatantly bringing the microwave was a mild risk after all. He rarely he lets me stay, but he’ll sometimes stay overnight at my place. The next time, Matthew stretched in bed, and said, “You only use that frou-frou coffee machine on weekends? Bring it down, it’ll be a nice Sunday treat…”
I remember putting my hands on my hips and glaring. “Frou-frou?”