The woman waters the plants in her garden before she leaves for her morning walk. The man sits at his easel, painting, before he leaves for his morning walk. Once outside, both glance at their watches and quicken their pace to avoid being late. When they arrive at their intersection—the one where they first crossed paths organically but now carefully choreograph the serendipitous timing—they pretend to be surprised, but their joy is genuine. He asks how her hydrangeas and tomatoes are faring in this dry weather. She asks if he’s broken through the mental block that has been stalling completion of his current portrait. She shows him photos of the garden, and he shows her photos of the painting’s progress.
Before they’d both undergone the partial memory removal procedure, their marriage had been happy and then deteriorated—as so many marriages do—and their divorce had been bitter. Electing to have the surgery that could make them forget was not a quick decision. It took time, tears, arguments, last-minute cold feet, cancellations and rescheduling, and the harrowing guilt of letting go of everything that had once tied them together—the beloved along with the regrets. With all memories of their shared history erased and their slate clean, they unwittingly moved to houses only a few streets away from each other. Now they are strangers who have, over time, become friendly neighbors and maybe something more. When alone, they wonder if the other feels the same way they do. But since they leave their longing unspoken and wait for a grand mutual revelation, they treasure their daily intersection meetings. It’s much easier and more pleasant to look forward rather than back.
Ahead is meaningful eye contact, the gentle uncertain touch of a hand on an arm, welcoming and knowing smiles, first embraces and passionate kisses, and long intimate conversations in bed where both pay close attention to each other’s mouths, skin, and bodies without reaching for any screens. Behind them is a love they can no longer remember, old resentments, no infidelity but a gaping frigid distance, and the death of their only child in a fraternity hazing gone wrong.
By the end of their marriage, she couldn’t look at him when she opened her eyes every morning without smelling the hospital, hearing the words stomach pumped and nothing else we can do, and seeing the detested alcohol that killed their boy in her husband’s glass night after night. They had coped with the unyielding grief in their own ways, but she couldn’t fathom or forgive his preferred liquid escape. He felt himself losing her along with their son, but he was just trying to erase his agony the old-fashioned way. Now when she looks at him on her morning walks, she sees kind eyes, hears a gruff voice full of laughter, and smells oil paint mixed with cedar and vanilla. In their past life, he used to be bothered and hurt by how much time she spent in her garden away from him—he saw it as her place of avoidance rather than refuge—but now he is charmed and beguiled by her green thumb and the hours she spends there.
She brings him startlingly red plump tomatoes sometimes, and he tells her later about the delicious soups, sandwiches, salads, and quiches he’s made with them. She doesn’t know his current oil painting, the one he’s been struggling with, is an abstract rendering of her and that he plans to give it to her one day. He wonders if she will understand it’s his way of saying, “I love you, I think I always have, and I know I always will.” But how can she be expected to when he still hasn’t yet realized the similar significance of the tomatoes?
Today they remain at their intersection slightly longer than usual. But after the tiny yellow bird they’ve been watching and admiring together abruptly takes flight, they too exchange fond farewells and go their separate ways.