Will is a botanist. We're sitting on a windy rooftop in Marseille. He has dirty-blond hair fashionably cut. He says he lets the hairdresser choose what cut to give: they know what looks best. He's in jeans low on his waist and a black fishnet top and wears a hat tied under his chin because of the wind. His face carries emotion. He is tall. We are drinking the last bits of a bottle of white wine and smelling lavender.
Amelia pinches the bud of the basil plant and tears it off. Will tells us that when you snip the bud, hormones shoot down the stem to the root. Amelia tells us that if the plant comes to flower, it will stop growing. She says: did you know? Flowering is the plant's goal. Our goals diverge.
Will tells us he likes swimming in the UPenn swimming pool in winter. The pool is outside. His arms pass through the warm pool into the cold air with rhythmic precision. His skin delights in the temperature shift: warm-then-cool-warm-then-cool-warm-then-cool-warm-then-cool.
Will tells us the plants in the apartment below are sickly. The plants on the roof are growing brown with the heat. Urban plants are generally unwell. What should we grow? He has no answer. In the forest, the roots are in dialogue. In LA, I watch tree-trimmers take chainsaws to the trees. All trimming (a human activity) requires removing some of what's there to allow for new growth.
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On Monday evening, before dusk, I meet A at the rocks bordering the mediterranean. She is wearing a short green dress over her soft white-pink-blue string bikini and ankle-socks with black leather reeboks. We were both late in meeting one another - I'm new to the city, so my walk took longer than expected, and she was testing her knowledge by wandering without looking at her phone and got lost. We find a spot to sit on the rocks. I had thought about buying some fruit while I was walking, but didn't, and regret having nothing to offer. She brought a favorite confection - thick soft almond-flour treats - two for each of us. It's my last night before leaving for Madrid, two days before my 40th birthday. She removes her dress, puts goggles on, and jumps off the rocks into the water. The water is cold from mistral, even though a week earlier she said it was warm as a bath. She stays in the water awhile, pushing herself to swim through the cold, and then struggles up the slippery acid-green algae of the rocks. I take pictures of her - she sparkles in the sun like a barbie. I say she looks like a barbie and we look at the pictures together and she agrees. She wants to send a picture to a guy she's been chatting with and asks me which one. I choose one that feels elegant. She used to have short hair but has grown it long. I think she likes to be seen, as long as it feels safe. She still has difficulty deflecting the unwanted advances of men. They ask her age. Instead of seeing the inherent power-play in this, she becomes self-conscious about her relationship with her age. She wants to be less femme, then embraces her femme. She's not attracted to people who look like her - petite, blond - whatever gender. A young man asks if we'd like him to take our picture - we acquiesce but I don't like the picture and ask A to delete it, so all I'm left with for the afternoon are the pictures I've taken of her. My vacation is documented by my eye looking outward. The man tells us he's from Algeria. He and his friends (they must be 10 years our junior) have been watching us, but I think to myself that A is one to watch. She catches the light. He asks if I'm British. He asks if I understand when he says he's Algerian. He asks if we like the picture. We thank him. On the rocks, we change out of our suits. After, we walk up the hill and pack ourselves into a crowded bus to get to the neighborhood where A has made a reservation for dinner - another treat from her to me. On the bus, over dinner, all the time, we speak of everything.