Branch

The sun was already leaning west by the time Bobbie stepped into the backyard with two glasses of iced tea. She moved slowly, careful not to spill, her sandals scuffing the dry flagstones. Kevin sat beneath the old lemon tree, cross-legged on a faded deck chair, watching bees hover near the blossoms.

She handed him a glass. He took it with a nod.

“You trimmed the hedges,” she said, settling into the chair opposite him.

“I did.” He sipped. “Not too short, I hope.”

“They look good.” She squinted toward them. “You left the jasmine. I like that.”

“I know.”

The neighbor’s dog barked once, then gave up. A bird flitted from the fence to the low branches above them. The quiet settled like dust.

“I read in the paper,” Bobbie said finally, “that citrus trees thrive on conversation.”

Kevin arched an eyebrow. “Trees?”

“Apparently. They did a study. People who talked to their lemon trees had more fruit.”

“I think that’s just because people who talk to trees are the kind who remember to water them.”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

He reached up and gently touched one of the hanging lemons. Still green. Hard. “Not quite ready.”

“No,” she agreed. “Still coming along.”

Kevin set his glass down in the grass. “Did you see the photo in the hallway? I straightened it.”

She didn’t look at him. “I noticed. Thank you.”

“Crooked frame drives me crazy.”

“I know.” She took a sip. The ice clinked softly. “You always said it was like living in a house that shrugged.”

He chuckled once. “Still does.”

The shadows stretched across the flagstones. Somewhere, a sprinkler clicked on and off again.

“Do you remember,” she said slowly, “when we planted this tree?”

“Of course. You wore those awful red gardening gloves.”

“They weren’t awful. Just old.”

“They had holes.”

“So did your socks.”

Their eyes met, then drifted past each other, like leaves caught in separate breezes.

“You were the one who picked lemons,” Kevin said tilting his glass toward the tree. “Said it would remind you of your grandmother’s porch.”

“She used to squeeze lemon juice into everything. Even her tea.”

“Bitterness runs in the family.”

She gave him a look. He raised both hands in mock surrender.

“I meant the lemons.”

“Sure.”

The breeze stirred, carrying with it the faint, sharp scent of citrus leaves.

“She would’ve liked this place,” Bobbie said.

“She would’ve hated the wallpaper.”

“She would’ve torn it down herself.”

“Now that,” Kevin said, “I can believe.”

They both laughed, but it wasn’t loud.

A bee wandered between them, then moved on. Bobbie watched it go.

“You still thinking of redoing the kitchen?” Kevin asked.

She hesitated. “Maybe. I don’t know. Doesn’t feel urgent anymore.

He nodded slowly, looking down at his glass. “It’s funny what stops feeling urgent.”

“Yeah.”

The light had shifted — warmer now, the shadows stretched thin across the yard.

Kevin rubbed the back of his neck. “I saw Nishes today,” he said.

“Oh?” Her voice was neutral.

“He asked about the yard. Said he misses sitting out here.”

Bobbie swirled her glass. “He was always fond of the tree.”

“He helped plant it.”

“He handed you the spade. Once.”

“Well, that counts.”

A bee skimmed the rim of Kevin’s glass, then veered off toward the blossoms. The air held their words like steam on glass.

“Did he say anything else?” she asked, still not looking at him.

“Not really. Just... you know. Asked how things were.”

“And you said?”

“I said they were quiet.”

She nodded.

“He’s seeing someone,” Kevin added.

Bobbie blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s she like?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Oh.”

He took another drink. “Didn’t seem right.”

“No.”

Kevin leaned back, chair creaking beneath him. “Funny how we pretend things start clean.”

“They never do,” she said. “They just continue.”

He watched the sky through the branches. “I think that’s the hardest part. The continuing.”

“I know.”

Her glass was almost empty. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“Do you remember the night the power went out?” she asked.

“Which one?”

“That summer storm. You lit all those awful scented candles from under the sink.”

“Lavender and fake ocean breeze.”

“And you tried to make toast over a candle flame.”

“Didn’t work.”

“No. But the whole house smelled like burnt wax and bread for days.”

They both smiled.

“We talked that night,” she said. “More than we had in months.”

Kevin didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. We did.”

“It was nice.”

“It was.”

A car passed beyond the fence, and somewhere a song played — faint, unplaceable. The music didn’t fill the space between them, but it threaded through it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bobbie said.

“About?”

“Just... whether it’s time to stop watering things that aren’t growing.”

His jaw twitched, just barely.

“You think this isn’t growing?” he asked.

She nodded toward the tree. “I’m talking about lemons.”

He nodded once. “Right.”

“I mean, we do what we can. Prune, water, feed the soil.”

“Talk to it.”

“Talk to it,” she echoed. “But sometimes, it just doesn’t take.”

Kevin reached up and plucked a small green lemon, rolling it between his palms. “Too soon.”

“It won’t ripen off the branch,” she said quietly.

He held the lemon a moment longer, then set it gently on the table between them.

“No,” he said. “It won’t.”

The light was almost golden now. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air.

“Do you want to keep sitting here?” he asked.

“For a bit.”

“Okay.”

Bobbie leaned back, eyes on the tree.

“I’ll miss the blossoms,” she said.

“They’ll come back. Next season.”

She nodded, but didn’t reply.

The silence between them was thick now — not awkward, but full. Like they were holding something between them with both hands and no one wanted to drop it.

“I’ll finish the hedges tomorrow,” Kevin said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

She didn’t speak for a while. A moth drifted near the porch light, fluttering in slow circles.

“Would you take the lemon tree?” she asked.

He looked over at her.

“You picked it,” she added. “I think it’d do better with you.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s used to your voice.”

He smiled softly. “Maybe.”

The sun dipped below the fence line. The blossoms caught the last of the light.

Bobbie stood. “I’ll make us some dinner.”

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

She carried the empty glasses inside, her footsteps steady. Kevin stayed beneath the lemon tree, watching as the sky deepened into dusk. The little green lemon sat between them on the table, still hard, still unready — but real.

He didn’t touch it. Just listened to the bees and the wind and the sound of something finishing itself, gently, without declaring the end.