Caroline arranged them so perfectly. She had attended school for it. It was a lost art in a way, a craft that people didn’t really think about these days. She had hoped to own a boutique at some point but for now she took shifts at the grocery store. She would never receive them herself, just make them for others. Maybe she would someday.
Each morning when he opens the front door the flies take off around him. The mint is overgrown in a homely way but that’s how he likes it. In the mid summer it was stiff and compact, and smelled excellent. He’d pull off a single leaf and rub it on the back of his hand. He’d clip it by the bagful to make mint basil martinis and pesto pasta. Each year there comes a point where he realizes it’s out of control but it’s too late. The tiny lavender blooms are sweet and cast a nice shadow into the house at sunset, but they call the flies to the house. It grows up past the windows and hangs gangly across the doorway. It crawls inside the little shrine house he built for the Virgin Mary statuette. It covers the walls. Each evening when he comes home he is reminded of the trimming he’s supposed to do. “Tomorrow,” he thinks. “I’ll remember tomorrow.”