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​Finn keeps forgetting to water the plants. It seems like he’s vehemently anti-nature, or like he must be a forgetful person, but he hasn’t got either of those characteristics. He is in awe of the quiet of the plants, how they don’t bark at him or rebel. The five of them quietly sit there, scattered around the apartment. One is on the stool in the corner of his living room, another is above the toilet tank, another is on the left-hand side of the double kitchen sink, and there are succulents on the balcony. Their suffering remains implicit, until the day that he notices that they’re wilted. And when they’re wilted, he’s the only one who notices. At that point, he either waters the plants or he forgets, and when he forgets he’s still in awe of the plants’ presence, like they’re a testament to the will to survive, despite malaise.

Sure, some of his plants have died, or seem to have died, but he’s no expert on plant decimation. They simply look like they’re past the point of coming back and bringing new leaves, and he loosely uses the term death when this happens. Not all of them get to that point though, and no matter what, they all remain in their pots. The leaves are still, unwavering, in the same position for years.
Finn feels silly to admit that he relates to the plants, even if he hasn’t helped the plants. In fact, he’s washed his hands next to the plants, taken showers next to the plants, and if the plants had brains or a voice those anthropomorphic plants might say, “Hey, you trying to rub it in?” He doesn’t use water near the plants to be mean to them, it’s simply convenience; the way washing happens, based on the placement of the plants when he first moved in. If he were moving in now he’d put them behind walls or furniture, where they can’t see him when he uses water.

Even when he does water the plants, at this point, it doesn’t seem to make much difference. Some have weathered his environment better than others, still green, others- most surprising and counterintuitive, the cacti and succulents- look brittle and brown.
No one knows this whole theory Finn has about his plants. Not even he knows it. He thinks to step out on the balcony for fresh air now and then, but does not, or does it quickly, stifled by a vague aversion to seeing the succulents on the ledge.

“I like your plants,” Grace says, as he shows her his bedroom for the first time. He forgot he had plants in there. They still look upright, waxy green. If you look closely at the one with the purple and yellow cone center, you can tell that the peak is hard as straw, the color faded. She doesn’t notice. She lays back on the bed, shirtless, her elbows poking into the comforter and the sunlight white across her collarbones. The blinds are open and all the neighbors can see, but they don’t, he tells himself. Their bay windows and squares are empty. He takes off his shirt and walks toward her. He sees what they’re doing, what they’re about to do, and he’s attacked by a feeling like he can’t do it anymore. Even while he leans his thighs against her legs, and leans over to kiss her, he’s not there. He’s not doing anything with her.

His clothes are off and they’re on top of each other. He sees her naked back, they press together, and he gets an awful thought. The thought that this is the woman he could love forever, she would stay with him forever, and he’ll be with her forever- unless she dies. That phrase seems murderous, and scares him. She quickens, her breath lighting, her face gasping, and he sees all her actions as a hand, guiding him across a wobbly bridge. He tries them too, gasping, thinking about how close they are. They are very close. He’s used too many italics, but they’ve gotten him across the bridge. The light fades around him. The blinds seem to draw closed for one moment of relief before they whip open again. She’s still there, and her breath has faded, slowed. Thankfully, she’s taken care of. They lay there, as if lingering in slovenly nudity together proves that they’re serious about what they’ve done.
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He starts the shower. She steps in. He enjoys her company. He wants her to use his new bar of soap, he flicks her with water, and he is overwhelmed by her face, like watching someone smile in the rain, her smile behind floppy streams and her eyes lit under matted hair, smeared eyebrows. He steps out first, takes down the huge towel, and as he dries he notices the tiny plant to his left, sitting on the toilet tank between two matchboxes. The thin leaf on the third tier down, like an Egyptian hand, is bruised with a brown spot, ugly, the kind of stain he’d wipe immediately if he saw that on his own skin. There are gallons of gleeful water still shooting out less than a foot away, and he’d like to think that the steam is doing the job. That brown stain suggests otherwise. This seems like the perfect time to water that little money tree. Somehow the logistical barriers are too immense. There’s the porcelain tub, a shower curtain, and the water he’d waste trying to redirect the drops from the back of the shower to the top of the toilet tank. He could put the plant in the shower? But she’s in there, and the soil would rise up from the clay pot, clog the drain. For now, the girl is getting the water.
He’s dried. He hangs up the towel for her to use, says sorry that he doesn’t have any fresh towels. Using the same towel is another testament to their closeness, and the plant will wait.