A peach tree grew from your eye yesterday. It was odd to me how you didn’t mind.
“Last week,” you explained, “I left a peach pit behind my eye.”
I asked why, and you told me it was because you had nowhere else to put it. You’re staunchly against littering, even if it is organic matter, and I’ve always liked that.
“Do you do that often?” I asked.
“Grow trees from my eyes?” You said, smiling. I shook my head no. You knew what I meant, and conceded.
“Yes,” you said. “It’s where most of my receipts end up. I’m always forgetting to throw them away.”
“Why don’t you do it now?” I asked. “Since you’re thinking of it.”
“Hm,” you said, frowning without malice. I could see plainly that you were contemplating it the same way you contemplate getting up to do the dishes after a meal. “Sure,” you said finally. “Thanks.”
I watched you stand from your chair and pull the trash can out from under the sink, where it was hidden behind the lacy curtains that cover the plumbing. With your back turned, you didn’t let me see you take your eye out, but I saw your three fingers curl over your fist, and knew it was cradled gently in your palm as you dug out the receipts. I watched them flutter into the trash before your hand returned to your face. When you turned around, your eye was back in its socket, and I could see you were pocketing some change.
“What are you going to do about the peach tree?” I asked when you sat back down.
“Make a cobbler, I suppose,” you answered.
“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked, and I felt an unpleasant stirring of heat and energy in my fingertips.
You shook your head. “It’s not very big.”
It was only a sapling, after all, but still, it would grow. Why couldn’t you see this? Or perhaps you did, and you didn’t care.
“Right,” I answered. “But it must itch, or something.”
“The roots tickle a bit,” you admitted. I hadn’t thought about the roots. Would they dig in, squeeze your brain? Or travel down your spinal cord and wiggle to the tips of your fingers and toes? I imagined you growing stiff and slow as the peach tree took over until you were nothing but fertilizer. You would look marvelous in a garden, I suppose, and I could make fresh peach tea, but you wouldn’t be good for much else, and I liked all the other things you were good for.
“Are you going to take it out?” Was all I could manage with this picture in my head. I meant, “Take it out.”
“Probably,” you said, and I felt some of the energy retreat from my fingers, floating between us idly, and a little peacefully.
“Good,” I said. “I’ll help you.”
“Not yet,” you said.
“Why not?”
“I like the company,” you answered.