“It has been ridiculous.” Matter-of-factly, I wrapped the cord around the clock-radio.

“Friends make mistakes; you don’t walk out on them because of that. Let’s at least talk about it!”

In perfect deadpan, I said, “Consider yourself lucky I won’t talk about it.”

Frank and I settled into a comfortable routine. Since I had more free time than he did (as a graduate assistant, he taught two classes and was adding the finishing touches to his thesis), I took almost full command of running the apartment. To my surprise, I actually enjoyed those menial tasks I had always hated. Growing up at home, I had sneered at cookbooks and dirty dishes and had complained about having to iron blouses and clean my room. All the while I had known Frank, I was amazed at the enthusiasm he had for working on his car. It didn’t mesh with his intellectual pursuits, but he explained that working with his hands on a motor gave his mind a much needed change of activity. Quickly, it dawned on me that I had no hobbies at all except reading, going to movies and honing my tongue on some poor, amazed soul at a party. I turned up my nose at Frank’s suggestion that I buy some plants. To my mind, plants were something old ladies fussed over after their children left home. Then one day he walked in with a philodendron and told me it was one of the easiest plants to care for. I set it in the window and doused it with water each day until it began to droop, then shrivel. I easily dismissed it as an insignificant failure. But it was the source of my first real argument with Frank.

“You’re giving it too much water,” he said.

“If I don’t water it every day, I’ll forget about it completely and never water it.”

“That’s ridiculous. You have to take a plant on its terms, not yours.”

“I’m not going to be a slave to a plant.”

“No one’s asking you to be a slave. Just considerate.”

“For God’s sake, it’s not a pet.”

“It’s alive. And you’re letting it die.”

“What do you want me to do—call in an undertaker?”

“If you can’t take care of it properly, just leave it alone.”

“With pleasure. It’s dead anyway,” I said, pulling off a leaf.

“Just don’t touch it.”

“All right! You don’t have to make it sound like I’m the Dutch elm disease.” I pulled off another withered leaf. He got up and carried it from the living room into the bedroom and placed it on the window sill near his side of the bed.

I was furious.

“Maybe you’d like me to give it a 2 a.m. feeding with an eyedropper.”

“I said leave it alone.”

“Oh, who the hell wants to touch the damned thing!” He sat back down at his desk and opened a book. “I’ll bet your little girl with the grocery bags has green thumbs.”

Silence.