Empty Garden

Love and boyhood, love and manhood

Marcel’s on the phone. Back from New York.

“How’s NYU?”

“The city’s great, Johnny,” he says. “I’ve never felt more at home. Doing a fair bit of cooking. There’s a rooftop garden. Spending a lot of time up there.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say. “What are you growing?”

“The usual. Vegetables. You know, the carottes, the tomates, the poivrons.”

I laugh. “We missed you at Thanksgiving.”

“I know, I know,” he says. “I couldn’t get a train ticket. I ended up with all the other lonely hearts in the dining hall.”

“Sounds pathetic.”

“Does, doesn’t it?” Marcel says.

He’s about to say something. I can feel it in the pause.

“I met someone.”