Money Plant

In his bedroom, before she puts back on what he peeled off, she tends to the plant in the window: a stick like her, almost as naked. She collects the shriveled leaves on the floor and gently plucks what’s yellowing to stimulate fresh green. An hour ago, he went to where he goes in the morning. She’s leaving soon. The arrangement is no later than nine. She hopes for a quick shower, but as all the towels are sopping and his hairs are stuck on the soap, she’ll wait until she gets home. He’s turned off the coffeemaker again. The half pot that’s left is cold and thick. She serves the plant water. A puddle appears under the pot, drip drips down the wall. It’s raining outside too, crying down. He and she speak little, but she did once ask what kind of plant it was. ‘A money plant,’ he said. ‘Because you’re a pricey bitch.’ She was rooted as he continued: ‘Deep Throat, the Watergate informant guy, put a plant on a balcony when he wanted to meet. Did you know that?’ This afternoon — the arrangement is no earlier than five — she’ll return. Stand on the street and look up. If the plant is in his window on the eighth floor, she’ll walk through the shiny lobby, past the staring concierge who’ll click click a pen, like he’s keeping count or deciding where she is in the ranks: best legs or best ass or the best at caring for a money plant.

Karen writes in a basement. Her work is in or forthcoming in Briefly Zine, Bandit Fiction, Funny Pearls, Reflex Fiction, Versification, The Disappointed Housewife, Roi Fainéant Lit Press, Bullshit Lit, and others. She/her. @MeKawalker883.