Spearmint
The morning air clung to the earth. Thick with the scent of wet soil and the faint, green sharpness of spearmint leaves. Amira was working on the garden, she knelt in between the rows of tomato plants, her fingers brushing aside the damp foliage as she plucked out the slender weed sprouts that had emerged overnight. The sound of her work was soft, just a rustle of stems, the occasional snap of a stray tendril, the quiet tap of uprooted roots against her palm before she tossed them aside. Somewhere beyond the garden fence, a lone car could disrupt the morning tranquility, but the distance, the foliage, the trees and bushes around the whole place made it feel secluded. Safe.
Beside her, Támura watched in silence, his hands resting on his knees, fingers curled slightly against the morning stiffness. The symptoms had been getting worse this week, settling into his joints like an old, unwelcome guest. But he didn’t complain, he just observed, silent. There was a hypnotic rhythm to Amira’s movements, patient, unhurried, following the times of the plants, as if the garden existed outside of time, and she was merely a visitor in its slow, unending story.
“Look,” she said, her velvet voice resonating in Támura’s ears. She tilted a broad leaf aside with her thumb. Beneath it, a small, hard tomato clung to the vine, its skin still pale green, its shape no larger than a marble.
Támura leaned forward, his breath a slow exhale. He had seen this before, season after season, every year, yet...
“It’s different,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Amira glanced up, her dark and bushy eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Writing,” he said, “is control. You decide it all, its shape, color, the day it’s born, the day it’s ripe... When a character dies. But this-” He gestured towards the plant. “You can tend them, guide them, but in the end, they grow as they please. They don’t ask for permission, they don’t care about our will.”
A breeze stirred the leaves, the cold air carried with it the faint, sweet perfume of the mint on the corner. Somewhere in the distance, the neighbor’s dog barked, marking the loud beginning of old-man Trevor’s day, yet in here a soft murmur.
Amira wiped her hands on the thighs of her trousers, leaving smudges of dirt behind. “You make it sound like they’ve betrayed you.”
Támura chuckled. “No, just surprised, I suppose. Even after all this time, I can never guess the correct time they’ll appear.”
She studied him for a moment, her head tilted softly, as if trying to read something in between the lines of his voice, in between the lines of his face. Then, with a shrug, she turned back to the plants. “Well, if it helps, they’d die without us, so you’re still kind of their god.”
Támura laughed, a low and warm sound. “What kind of god can’t make them ripen faster?”
Amira grinned. “Maybe you’re just a lazy god.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lingered on the tiny green fruits, their skins still taut and unyielding. They would grow. They would redden. And one day, without any command from him, they would be plucked, eaten, their seeds scattered into the earth to begin again.
It was nothing like writing. And perhaps, that was the whole point.
Támura shifted, bracing his hands against his knees as he pushed himself up from his wooden stool. A dull ache radiated from his hips, but he ignored it, rolling his shoulders once before stretching his back with a quiet groan.
“I’m going in for a coffee,” he said. “Let’s hope the pot hasn’t gone too bitter yet.”
Amira stood, brushing the dirt from her palms. She solemnly walked and held him by the arm as they walked back. “I’ll help. We can throw something together for breakfast.”
Inside, the house smelled of yesterday’s homemade bread and the faint, piney smoke from the stove. Amira moved to the counter after washing her hands, slicing thick pieces of bread while Támura poured the coffee, black for him, a spoon of honey stirred into hers. She fried eggs in a cast-iron pan, sunny side up, meanwhile he layered slices of cheese and the last of the spring’s pickled peppers between the bread.
“Another few weeks,” Amira said, nodding toward the window where the garden lay beyond, “and we’ll be eating those tomatoes with every meal.”
Támura hummed in agreement, handing her a plate. “If the birds don’t get them first.”
They took their breakfast to the roofed deck, settling into the worn wooden chairs that faced the fields. The sky was a wide pale blue, streaked with thin clouds drifting northward, carrying the warning of a black patch coming from the south. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor rumbled to life, its sound carrying across the open land like a drowsy echo.
Amira bit into her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “You ever think about writing again?”
Támura sipped his coffee, watching the horizon move. The question hung in the air, resisting to be drafted by the wind.
“Maybe,” he replied at last. “But not the same way.”
She didn’t press. They ate in silence, the clouds above them moving slowly, endlessly, toward some unseen destination.
The coffee steamed between Támura’s palms, its bitterness rich and dark, curling into the air with a scent like roasted earth and dark chocolate. He took a slow sip, letting the heat of it settle on his tongue before it faded into something smoother, almost sweet in its aftertaste. Amira mirrored him, blowing gently across the surface of her cup before tasting. She made a small, satisfied sound, not quite a sigh, but something close.
“You go back on Monday, don’t you?” Támura asked, watching the steam rise between them.
Amira nodded, her gaze drifting between the food and Támura’s eyes. “Exams, two of them.” She swirled the coffee absently. “Soil chemistry and plant genetics.”
“Nervous?”
She laughed, soft and effortless. “No. Not really.” A pause, then she tilted her head, considering. “It’s strange. Sometimes it feels like I’m not even trying. Like I set things in motion years ago, and now I’m just... riding the wave.” She took another sip, her voice quieter now. “I used to think life was supposed to be harder. Like if it didn’t hurt, I wasn’t doing it right.”
Támura watched her, the way the morning light caught the loose strands of her dark hair, transforming them in golden lines that adorned her tanned face. There was a tranquility to her now that hadn’t been there when she first started helping him in the garden. Back then, running around, asking about books every other minute, she moved like someone braced for impact.
“And now?”
She smiled, just slightly. “Now it feels like breathing.”
A silence settled between them, comfortable, filled only by the distant call of a bird and the slow creak of the deck boards beneath them. The clouds drifted, endless and unhurried.
Támura studied his coffee, the way the liquid caught the light. “You’re lucky,” he said finally.
Amira glanced at him. “You say that like it’s a rare thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her eyes half-lidded facing the sun. “Maybe. Or maybe we just forget how to let it be easy.”
Támura said nothing. But for a moment, he wondered what it would be like, to stop fighting the current, to stop expecting the wave to crash.
To simply let himself float.
