There’s a spider plant — a wily, gangly, teenage thing, in the corner of my dining room, devouring the sun. I did not want him to intrude: I did not ask for plants.
I kill them, I said, unapologetically at a dinner party with people I wanted to like, a glass of Chardonnay in my hand. You know, they demand things, I said. Sag, like they’re inebriated. Die easily. They nodded and refilled my wine. Yes, yes. How funny.
What is it you do for a living? And before I knew it, we were sharing pictures of dogs and cats and fish and other best friends that do not pay rent.
Other best friends
Before I knew it, we were sharing pictures of dogs and cats and fish.
