I have a confession to make: there are other plants.
It started a few weeks ago. In my attempt to eat more fresh and healthy vegetables, I have been stopping by the grocery store each night on my way home. At first I was interested only in the edible producers, the kales and spinaches - their leaves providing nutrients the way yours provide pleasure (well, used to).
But now, Houseplant, I have been seduced by the carnations, the lilies, and the roses. I never intended for things to go this far, but I promise that it is just nose sex, nothing more - just a raw, animalistic, olfactoric obsession that will pass with time. I am a man, after all, and I am weak. I don’t want you to think that I am replacing you with one of these overly sugar-watered flakes, these food-colored floozies, but I do enjoy myself when I’m around them. They make me feel young in a way that you haven’t lately with your veiny, bulbous leaves hanging there like the chewed-upon breasts of a retired wetnurse.
This is not to say that you are at fault. I am the one who has done wrong. Your age is a gift that I am learning to appreciate, but maybe a chlorophyll injection once in a while wouldn’t hurt.
I do not wish to separate from you, Houseplant. I only wish that we may reconcile our differences and renew our commitment to each other. I’ll promise to be more present if you’ll promise to be more perky.
R. D. Coopersmith