GRAPHIC DESIGNER AND ILLUSTRATOR

The plants should be ready for harvest today.
As the coffee brews, I push open the door and let the breeze come in. The morning air melds with the scent of coffee, and the sun bathes the room in gold. Dappled shadows of tree leaves pour in, casting irregular patterns upon vast eggshell walls and marble floors— a shifting lace that settles upon the kitchen island and the chair gathering dust underneath. For once, the house feels empty.

I feel sick.
My hand finds itself on the phone, and my thumb hovers over your name. I can’t commit. Just seeing it resurfaces memories of the past: of taking your hand when you didn’t want it to be, of talking to you when you didn’t want to talk to me. Calling you would be begging for your company, just as I did when I was a stupid child.

But I’m not asking you to stay with me.
Right— I’m not asking for your company, because I just need someone to help me with the garden. It doesn’t matter who it is. You’re just the most accessible; the only one I know that isn’t busy at this hour.

The phone is less daunting now.

“Morning.”
“I’m picking stuff from my garden. Come by.”
“What— now?”
“Yeah.”

You laugh, and my stomach turns.

“You can’t just call me expecting that I’m free, you know. But I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Yeah. Okay.”

The call was barely a minute, but it felt like eternity.
My knuckles are white, and the reflection in my screen mocks me. But there’s no point in lingering— the coffee is ready. As I pour its contents into a mug, I let the heat burn my hand. It doesn’t relieve the knot in my stomach.

Eventually, a knock at the door snaps the tension. It’s you.

“Sorry I’m late. I was finishing breakfast.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you eaten?”
‍
I scoff as you kick your shoes off.
“Don’t baby me.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah. I did.”

I take you to the back, and you slip your shoes back on.
“Did you put sunscreen on?”
“What, is it my turn to be babied?”
You really don’t give a shit about how you look, do you?

As I fasten the hat on my head, I toss you shears and pick my own. You smile faintly as you tuck the basket under your arm.
“Lead the way.”

As I show you how to harvest the tomatoes, my eyes never leave the shears in your hand. They gleam red under the sun. It reminds me of how the color looks against your tan skin, how garishly they stood out against your palms. It’s nothing like the green you adorn— how it brings out the color in your face and arms. It compliments your hair and your eyes: two different shades of brown.

Red shouldn’t be anywhere near you.
I’ve seen you wear it once. It looked terrible. Worse than terrible— it made you look like a freak, the way it made your skin disgustingly orange and your hair grey. I told you it looked like shit, and you just laughed with that annoying laugh of yours, the one that snags in your throat as you throw your head back. You said that you liked the shirt, but I told you that I was just telling you the truth.

You asked me what you should do, and I told you to pick a better shirt to wear.
Maybe one in burgundy with a white accent if you’re so insistent on wearing something like that, but it’d still make you look like shit. If I saw you ten years ago, I’d have a fucking heart attack. Fuck, I’m getting sick just thinking about it.

You never wore it again, and good riddance.
Your fashion is OK now. Not great, but I guess I can lower my standards for you since you didn’t grow up knowing any better. It’s at least better than whatever the fuck you wore that day, but most things are. What else have you worn? Bright yellow? Cool grey? I shudder to imagine.

But the heirloom tomatoes look good in your hands.
Maybe it’s the way they shine under the morning sun. Maybe it’s the way they’re not an even shade, with streaks of purple and green. Maybe it’s just because you aren’t wearing them. But they look good in your palms, dimpled slightly by your fingers holding them firmly. Your hands keep moving, reaching out and plucking them from the twisting vines. Eventually, there’s no good ones left. You follow me to the cucumbers, and I tell you how to pick them.

There’s so much green around us. You almost blend in.
It’s funny. It’s not working in your favor right now. The dark green of the cucumbers are unflattering, and the clothes you wear do you no wonders. I can turn around for a second and lose you amongst the leaves.

The harvest continues, and we eventually head back inside.
“Lots today,” you say, emptying the contents of the basket and arranging them on the table. “What are you going to do with all of these? It’s a lot for one person.” Your hands are on the chilis, each one a bright red. They’re the same color as that ugly shirt you wore.

“What, trying to take these off me?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
‍
You blush a lot, I’ve noticed, even if your expression doesn’t show it. The color rushes to your face and neck. It’s always been that way, even when we were kids. It’s almost endearing. Almost. Your hand moves to tuck your hair behind your ears, the curls barely staying in place.

“Sure, whatever. But I don’t care if you take some.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You have more mouths to feed, anyways.”
“That’s nice of you.”

The corners of your eyes crease, and they almost sparkle in the light as you smile. Don’t look at me like that. You look pathetic. You always look that way with those sad, down-turned eyes, even if there’s joy in them. It’s *weird.* Besides, what are you smiling for? Do you think this is some kind of joke? I can’t stand to look at you anymore.

“Here. Take a bag. Take as much as you want.”
Your hand follows mine as we pack away the harvest, and I realize how much redder I am next to you. It’s bothersome. My skin looks like ash amongst the tomatoes and chilis. Your skin glows in comparison to mine, golden under the light pouring through the window.

It’s time for you to go.

“Thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it.”

You smile again, and I can’t meet your gaze.
As you head out the door, the bag glistens red beside you.

Red shouldn’t be anywhere near you…
But maybe I’m wrong.

“Don’t pull too hard. You’ll break the stem.”
Your hand stops mine. Despite all the efforts you’ve put into the garden, your hands feel like they’ve never worked a day in your life.

“So use the shears?”
“You can. But they come off easy if they’re ready.”

With a careful twist and pull, you offer it to me.

“You know a lot.”
“That’s common knowledge.”
“So what if it is?”
“There’s no point in praising something everyone knows.”
“Then tell me something most won’t.”

There’s a long silence.

“You wouldn’t care.”
“I care if it’s you.”
I look up.
You’re blushing. It’s barely visible under the shadow of your hat, but the tension in your jaw gives it away.

“Sorry. That was a bit much.”
You say nothing, but your mouth twitches into a tight smile as you move to touch the tomato plant in front of us.

“... Well, there’s a reason why heirloom tomatoes aren’t uniform in color. It’s because they lack the gene that makes them so.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I think you’re holding back on me.”
“What?”
“You’re not telling me everything you know.”

Your hand clenches slightly, fingertips pressing into the tomato’s flesh. Your gaze never wanders from it.

“... Alright, fine. You asked for it.”
A nervous breath escapes your lips.
‍
“I wanted to grow these because they’re not the typical variety that you’d normally see in stores. You’d think that the fruits are genetic mutants considering their color and shape, but that’s not true—”
“Hold on— fruit?”
You shrug half-heartedly.
“They’re botanically fruit. Vegetables in cooking. Call it whatever you want.”
‍
“Anyways, as I was saying, the color of heirlooms are actually the true color of tomatoes. We bred them all to be red because they sell better,” you continue, a dry smile slipping onto your face. “Can’t say it doesn’t work, but I’d rather have these in my garden.” Your thumb caresses the streaked vegetable—fruit—in your palm reverently.

“So it’s just aesthetically different?”
You scoff. “Of course not. Things aren’t different just because.”
I’m fairly certain that there are a few examples that would prove otherwise, but I didn’t bother.

“The color’s dependent on a gene: golden2-like. GLK2. It controls photosynthesis, and before you ask, yes, the fruits photosynthesize, too. They’re still part of the plant.” You pluck the tomato off its stem and motion for me to follow you. “They don’t contribute a significant amount, but it’s enough to be noticeable,” you continue, walking through perfectly manicured grass.

We eventually stop at a spout near the back of your house. You turn it on and wash off the surface of the vegetable before offering it. “Here. Try,” you urge, and I take it from your hands. I marvel at it sparkling under the sunlight.

Like an heirloom gem. Maybe that’s where they got the name.

“So?”
“It’s… wow,” I mumble through a full mouth. “I don’t know what I expected. It’s really good.”
“You’re not bullshitting me, right?” you ask, a bit pensively.
“No, really. I don’t know how to describe it, it’s just— it’s better than the ones at the store. Sweeter for sure.”

Despite yourself, a grin breaks out onto your face. “That’s because of the presence of the gene,” you say as I take another bite. *Damn, it really is good.* “The reason why the store-bought ones don’t taste as sweet’s because the gene was bred out in favor of the red color. You’re tasting the sugars from the photosynthesis! Isn’t it cool?”

I look down. Your hand clasps tightly around my wrist as you grin up at me, and I’m reminded of when we were kids. Back when you spoke everything on your mind— back when neither of us knew any better. Your beaming face is something I haven’t seen in forever, and it aches.

“... I’ve missed this side of you.”
Your eyes widen, and you let go as quickly as your smile fades. Your touch still burns against my skin.
“I—”
You turn back to your garden, and the tension in your jaw reappears.

“Finish eating. We have to get back to work before noon comes.”

There’s no room for me to argue. I silently nod and follow after you, my eyes never wandering from your back. As I take another bite from the tomato, the words to describe it finally come to me.

Sweet and tart.