Suicide Gardener

He saw a flash a brown from the corner of his eye. It was the asian lady again. She probably works at the library, or else she frequents the super market every other day. She obviously wanted to say something. He had been bent over the beets, knowing no matter how much he watered them, they would always taste like dirt, still he lorded over them every night, flooding their plane with baptismal water, vainly trying to cleanse the beets. Back straightened he deftly held the hose to the side as he removed his buds. careful not to splash the beer in his right hand. The asian lady wore a fake frown, suggesting a compliment was cocked and ready in her throat.
“Every night I walk by here and think “arrrrgh” how are his tomatoes so big, and red, and sooooo many! Mine are still green, and its almost fall.”
He took a gulp of beer. “just luck I guess”. The asian lady would have none of the false modesty. “I don’t think so. You water like you’re meditating. The garden knows how much you love it. What do you think about?
Another gulp of beer. “Oh don’t tell me”, waving off her own question. “Well goodnight” said the asian lady, adding, “I can’t wait to see how those beets turn out”, as she walked away.

He was curled over the beets, flooding them with with water. Thinking maybe I will take some pills and drown myself. But the water is damn cold. Perhaps getting a noose at the ready, speeding to midspan of the bridge and slamming the breaks, to make a cinematic run for the rails, lassoing the top rail with the hooked end of a rope, arms and legs splayed backward like a base jumper falling into the void. Except there would be no squirrel suit to spirit him away, but rather a noose to make it all stop.

And then he saw a flash of brown from the corner of his eyes.