The tomatoes in my sapphic cottagecore fantasy are dead now and it’s all because of you
The husband is standing in front of my register and he looks incredibly uncomfortable. We are unnaturally far apart, and he shuffles his weight from foot to foot. He studies the drink fridge intensely, as if Sprite is an exciting new seasonal flavour, while running his fingers repetitively through his short greying hair. It’s been like this for a few minutes now, since his wife realised that she had forgotten to get something and scurried back into the store, abandoning him.
I’ve taken extra care packing their items into the polyester reusable bag, nesting the mixing bowls and measuring cups inside one another, wrapping each plate in paper and taping down the edges. I’ve even refolded all the towels, so the trims align. Now all those things are done, and we’re left standing together in silence, the air conditioning wicking away the nervous sweat from our skin. I clear my throat.
‘Pretty good weather for the weekend, isn’t it?’
Over the intercom, the duty manager is calling a 403, another staff member is going on break. I so wish that were me right now.
‘Absolute stunner, I reckon. Especially for October.’
I bob my head in encouragement. He gravitates closer to the register.
‘We’ve been waiting for a weekend like this for a while now. My wife wants to get her tomato seedlings started.’
They seem the type of people who would grow fantastic tomatoes. I see the tomatoes in my head, fat and perfectly round, red skin reflecting the sunlight. I imagine the plants, branches drooping with the weight of their bounty.
‘You don’t know this, but my wife is known for her tomatoes. Puts them in salads, with her homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Everyone asks her to bring them to the parties.’
I can see the two of them, waiting on a doorstep together. They’re dressed head to toe in gauzy summer linen. Her, holding the white salad bowl, one of the proper ceramic ones, not plastic like the one we have at home. The star of the show, the tomatoes, sliced in thick rounds and sitting on top, juices glowing. Him, dutifully carrying the little glass bottle of balsamic vinaigrette sealed with an old-school rubber clip.
‘I let her take all the credit, of course, but what most people don’t realise is it’s a team effort.’
I can see the house where they live together. Out front the weatherboards are freshly painted, powder blue, and the garden is full of bright flowers. It’s planned out so that there’s something in bloom all year round. Bushes of lavender swarming with bees. Bunches of white and purple agapanthus. A rich pink bougainvillea climbing the canopy by the front door. The air is thick with their aroma.
The back is less conventional but attractive in its own sprawling way. A big stretch of mown lawn edged with the shade of fluffy tree canopies. There are planter beds dotted around in all the sunny spots and a repurposed bathtub in the corner overflowing with leafy greens. They have every variety of citrus bush, loaded with sweet juicy fruit.
It’s the kind of place where I could see myself, with a wife of my own, someday.
‘The reason why her tomatoes get as big as they do is the greenhouse. Which I made for her, it’s built special.’
I can see my wife. Wearing long floral skirts and cozy knitted cardigans in a warm colour palette of reds and browns. She likes to make homemade sourdough in the kitchen, perpetually flooding the house with the smell of baked goods. I like to potter in the garage, soaking in the earthy scent of sawdust. In the afternoons we tend the garden together. When it gets too hot, we come together on the back deck to lounge under the shade sail drinking chilled elderflower cordial.
‘So, what’s the secret behind the greenhouse?’ I ask. ‘What makes it special?’
At that moment his wife emerges from the depths of the store, waving the tea towel like a lilac and peony patterned flag. He starts describing the greenhouse with his hands, forming a roof at about shoulder height. His wife frowns deeply at him.
‘Honey, what are the two of you talking about?’ she interrupts. He pauses.
‘Well, I’m just telling this young lad how I built my greenhouse.’
A sharp discomfort jolts through the conversation. The wife begins to laugh, mouth unnaturally wide and she reaches over to smack his shoulder.
‘Don’t be silly. This young lady doesn’t want to hear about your greenhouse. You’ll bore her to death.’
‘No, I do,’ I assure him quiet but firm. ‘I do want to hear about the greenhouse.’
But it’s too late. He shuffles back to stand behind his wife, receding into himself. He shifts his gaze to the floor and garbles an apology. The trick to growing the tomatoes is sealed behind his lips.
I can see my wife again; she is in the garden, knelt on the ground. She rises, the damp dirt has soaked into the knees of her skirt, staining the cotton. She shifts her body and I see the tomato plants behind her. They are wilted and the leaves have gone dry and crisp. Not yet brown but an in-between yellow. In her hands she cradles the tomatoes which are a sickly green and pocked with blight.
The couple leave the store, the husband obediently guiding the shopping trolley out the automatic doors and into the carpark. I bite down hard on my lip, the tomatoes in my sapphic cottagecore fantasy are dead now, and it’s all because of you.
Aroha Witinitara (Ngāti Kahungunu ki Wairarapa) is a student living in Wellington, New Zealand. You can find more of their work in PŪHIA, Starling and bad apple.