I looked down at Squiggs' swollen feet and gnarled toes. I asked him if the winter had been hard. "No," he said, "actually, my feet never get cold. I thought about how painful it must be for him to walk over the hot, jagged gravel we were walking over. I knew his feet got cold in the winter. His girlfriend showed me the bedroom slippers he wore out when it was cold.
But I liked him anyways. It didn't matter that he lied to me. I had lied too, and often, for years as I tried to convince myself and everyone else that "no, I never feel self-conscious when clean-shaven ladies look down at my hairy legs, " and "no, as a matter of fact, I never worry that I won't get a job because I choose not to wear a bra."
I had lied too, and often. And it didn't matter to me that he lied. I liked him anyways. His no-shoe situation was just like my no-bra situation and I felt comfortable knowing that we were fighting against the same thing.
As he handed me the last tray of tomato plants he asked if I ever talked to my plants. Caught off guard, I took a moment to put the tray down in the backseat of my car. I stood back up, faced him, and said, "Well, yea, I guess I do talk to my plants."
I lied to him because I felt like a person who would, of course, talk to her plants. I told him about how I'd practically turned somersaults when I saw my tiny seedlings release themselves up above the soil. How I liked to go and check on them to see their progress. I told him about how it seemed like they were looking up specifically at me. And how heartbroken I'd been when they drooped over on top of themselves after I transplanted them. How responsible, how guilty I'd felt. And the longer I talked to my barefooted friend, the more sure I was that, of course, I talk to my plants. And now I do.
