The cacti are dying. Some say they can live forever without any water. That’s not true. Depends on the type.

A Christmas cactus needs water every four to six weeks.  Touch the soil. If it’s dry, water it. Use the tips of your fingers and place them in the dirt. Does the soil stick? If yes, then let it go a while longer without water. Do you hear me? he asked.

Yes. I’m listening, she said.

Go on. Touch the black soil.

I don’t want to. You do it.

Why won’t you?

Because. I’m tired of being told what to do. Tired of completing your tasks, she lit a cigarette.

That’s not good for the cacti.

It’s not good for me either. She blew out smoke. You care more about them than you do me. You got me coming and going.

Don’t argue around the plants. They don’t like that. They like classical music. Bach. Mozart.  Music from a different time.

They don’t like country western?

You’re stereotyping. Gabe and Grace like classical. I raised them on it.

She laughed and picked up Gabe and threw him against the wall. There. I killed him. I killed one of your cacti. Watch this. She picked up Grace, opened the door, and tossed her outside in the cold snow.

She’ll die out there. Murderer. I’m calling the police.

Why? Cuz I killed your plants.

They’ll come back. They’ll come back and haunt you the rest of your days.

Right.

He put on his coat. Picked up Gabe and walked out the door.

Where you going?

To bury them.

Bury?

They were living creatures. Never harmed anyone. And you killed them.

You’re fucking crazy.

Yes. That has been established.  But in the spring, they’ll return. You watch. It’ll be curtains for you.

You’re nuts.

Spring time. Spring time.