When it was green, the garden was like this: it was like when you line up two conch shells beside two peaches, and backlight the whole fucking thing, so that you notice that the peaches share certain things with the conches, like a self-illuminating orange, so that they pull all the light in the room into themselves and spit it out in a diffuse glow; or how they like to sit cocked on their sides very firmly – bullshit like that.
The garden was an arranged thing that was an improvement/meditation on the natural, which is like the very fucking definition of a garden, so it seems redundant to say that this garden was especially like that. But it was! It was very Japanese, and you could tell that the garden was not for food or playing in or anything functional. Sure, there were fucking jicamas, but it was a textural thing.
Connor had made the garden, all on his precious goddamn own, and he wasn’t Japanese, and he didn’t even have any real needs: he was a total tool that just went around meditating, sticking his pinky in the air and sucking on it and trying to polish jewels so they still looked rustic and just eating shit, shit, shit. He was thirty-two years of age, and he didn’t have any friends, but he had improved his house A LOT, and girls liked to come over and fuck him in it so that they felt like they were becoming more responsible individuals. They thought that by fucking such a total and complete tool, they were showing great emotional maturity, because he was somewhat more economically viable than the pimpled lank twats they were wont to carouse with.
Actually, Connor was a poor old thing who just tried really hard to be middle class all the time and I guess it worked! Bully for him.
One day Connor bought a whole bunch of fake rocks to put over some of his winter-dead non-perennials and started crying about how they weren’t heavy enough.