She went out to get the newspaper. A passerby stumbled and seemed to lunge straight toward Akreda Amena. She startled and stepped sideways to avoid the collision.
"Oh—sorry. I didn't mean to rush up like that. I just tripped."
The man was about her age, maybe a little older, with long, unkempt hair.
"I'm worried about my father, even though I'm not sure I have a real reason to be. He called saying a stranger tried to break into his place while he was home."
"He's fine. Clouds, shadows, all the movement around—visibility drops. Do you need help?"
"I don't think some random person can just walk into a house in broad daylight. And if it happens, there's no one around to ask him how he's doing. He keeps his door locked most of the time, but he has panic attacks. I have to go—I promised him. It took me forever to convince him not to call the police again. He used to do it several times a week. I might have scared you. I didn't mean to. Sorry," the stranger said, then resumed his hurried jog.
When she reached the stationery shop where she bought her newspapers, the front door was locked. She knocked hard and waited. Hearing nothing, she knocked again—harder—and called out. Still no response. She went around back, pushed the door, and stepped inside. The clerk sat in his usual chair, eyes glued to a magazine. He was masturbating.
"Morning, hotshot. I'll leave the money on the counter and grab the paper myself."
At the corner café, the bartender—Hector—handed her the coffee without being asked.
"Foam and a smile. Like always."
Hector was carefully watering a plant, letting a thin stream run slowly through its glossy leaves.
"You like flowers, Hector?"
"Since I started living alone after the divorce, I find peace in simple things. Plants. Strong coffee in heavy mugs. Late reading. I bought this one at a shop in Chinatown. Found it by accident one afternoon—I walked into a covered passage and caught a whiff of mint that pulled me toward a corner full of pots. 'The plant that listens,' the owner said—an old woman with narrow eyes and delicate hands. 'It doesn't thrive just anywhere. You have to be careful how you talk to it.'"
"I don't know much about plants."
"It listens. Likes to be touched when I come close. I'd prefer if it made little noises—whimpers, coos—some kind of response. Still, it gives me a trace of a smile."
"Maybe it's asleep. Keep talking to it. Eventually it'll answer. For now, it's just listening. Tell it things that might interest a plant."
"Like what?"
"No idea. I doubt it cares about what shoes your neighbor's cat is wearing, or why that guy always smokes outside the door in the rain."
Hector checked the soil, added a few more drops of water, and served another customer.
"And you—do you like plants?" he asked.
"When I have time, I'm sure I'll like them more. And I'll talk to them."
Akreda Amena stepped out of the café. Across the street, a red neon sign pulsed rhythmically on the face of a building—an advertisement for a sleep-monitoring device.