Planting Roots

A northwest autumn breeze 

had stirred a sweet smokescreen—

stove-warm air, birch-arched, 

drifted through a cracked window. 

On the first Saturday in November,

a roar caught my attention.

I set my book aside,

parted the blinds, 

and saw Sophia outside—

her chainsaw buzzed,

maple branches fell.

My eyes widened,

breath caught like a gut punch.

"Damn freak," I said—

my words rattled photos

off the walls.

The pine rail was cold 

under my hand.

The stairs creaked.  

I pulled on a shirt

and stepped out.

The door slammed.

“Hey,” I called, arms waving.

“Stop, idiot!”

She killed the saw, 

shoved up her goggles.

“What’s up?”  she said.

Her voice cut the morning air.

“What’s up?” I asked, 

posing near the trees.

“I’m Sophia,” she said. 

"Your new—”

“Jackass,” I said, 

cupping my mouth. 

"Jerk!"

"Look, bro. I don't know who hurt you,

but it wasn't me," she said.

"Oh," I said, forehead puckered.

"You want to be cute."

"I get my share of compliments."

She smiled and fluffed her hair.

I leaned closer, 

shaky finger raised, 

breathing warm hazelnut

like a dragon— 

“My grandmother planted those trees.” 

I pointed, memories swirling.

“Sorry, so sad, too bad!” 

Sophia snapped.

She stuck out her tongue 

like a schoolyard bully.

I folded my arms. 

“You're a damn idiot," I said,

squeezing my knuckles white. 

"Get it out," she said,

pulling my words with a crisp

hand swirl.

I brought my hand to my nose.

"It's not you," I said.

“I'm not your mother.” 

She crinkled her eyes—

she looked bad 

at anger and good in bed. 

If looks could kill, 

her gaze would have slain.

"And you're not my father."

I pressed my lips and nodded, 

scanning where the trees used to be. 

Hired workers loaded trunks, 

branches, and debris to be taken to the landfill.

“There go your memories,” Sophia said, 

peeling off her gloves. 

“You might as well have gone with the trash, dude.”

I tried to keep a straight face, 

but my lips curled into a grin. 

“You first,” I said.

“I wasn't the one who slept until”

—Sophia glanced at her watch— 

“nine, right?” She arched a brow.

“You could have talked to me,” I said. 

“That’s all I’m saying.”

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, 

folding her arms and shifting her weight 

to her back foot. 

“I don't need your permission.”

I dropped my hands.

“They had been there for generations.”

She placed her hands in her back pockets.

“In this generation, they’re not.” 

“What’s wrong with you?” I said,

narrowing one eye.

“I was doing yard work until you interrupted me.”

“Interrupted?” I shot back.

I cast my hand out. 

“There’s a white fence right there.”

“And?” She shrugged.

“And the trees are on my side."

I dropped my hands.

“Take it up with the city," she said,

raking me with contempt.

“I should have cut the trees 

on the other side of the house.”

“That is where your property ends.” 

I honked her nose.

"Get off me, you weirdo," she said, 

slapping my shoulder, 

but a hint of a smile appeared.

I squinted, then laughed.

"What?" She tucked her bangs behind her ear.

“A footnote says not to cut the trees.”

Sophia covered her mouth with her hand. 

“How do I say I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t grow the trees back.” 

I scratched my neck.

“I’ve been looking to plant roots.” 

Sophia bit her bottom lip.

"Oh, have you now?"

“You moved in six months back, right?”  I said,

lifting a brow, 

giving her an engaging glance.

“Sure did,” Sophia said. 

“You didn’t even notice me.”

“I prefer solitude," I lied.

“We could hangout sometime, 

and deny we did,” Sophia said.

I looked at my yard again. 

“It looks so naked, browning and all.”

“You could always see me naked.”

She winked, her lips curled.

“Let’s get to know each other first,” I said, blushing.

“What better way to plant forever together?”

I blushed and looked down.

"Let's start with reading each other's book collections."

"That was a joke." She raised a hand.

We laughed.

"No, it—"

"Wasn't a joke," she admitted.

"I've been reading  you after work."

"That's why I asked to read books—

because we've been writing each other

into a meet-cute."

She wrapped her arms around me,

cut my heart open, 

tripped me to birch branches.

Our dreams beat like a life, 

cut down our walls.

The start of life wasn't a love story,

it was a meet-cute.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

X: AC0040