He hadn’t been back to the garden because he was busy with work. Dapo chuckled to himself – that was at least a half-lie. Inspiration was a surge of energy, ideas tumbling onto paper weighing little or nothing, feather-like sketches, whole and real. Late into the previous night he’d started to paint, simple images, clouds of colour really. When he’d finished he felt pleased. He flossed and cleaned his teeth, flinching at the buzz of his electric toothbrush, undressed in soft half-light, climbed into bed beside Misra. She was soft and unyielding; he pressed against her, smelling almond oil. She said something he couldn’t hear, dropped her book. He ran his hand down her back until he was pulling at the thin web of panties, kissing the slight channel of her spine until he reached her hips. He rubbed the curved rise of her body with his palm and he wasn’t sure what happened. His vision went dark, only it wasn’t troubling, more like peaceful. Warmth caressed his head. He lay on one elbow, mind busy with visual equations. Curved brown hip into dark gleam of chestnut, into darker roundness of smooth plum, soft to the touch, into purple skin and mossy hair. Whorls carved into smooth surfaces like raised tattoos. Deep purple, immersive as bathwater. Slight fur, soft enough to rub against a cheek. Tickling, tender sensation.

After some time, he pulled away the covers and leant back on one arm. He didn’t know how long he lay there, but when Misra asked if something was wrong he was roused from his meditative state, shocked by his own distraction. He’d been deep inside his own mind, comparing the curve of her hips and buttocks with the rounded shape of the seed. His lips tasted of moist earth; it wasn’t actually unpleasant, just unusual. Dapo blinked himself back to the green-tinged statue of Ganesh beneath the smiling arc of multicoloured prayer flags, their books and untidy collage of clothes. He planted kisses around Misra’s waist, ignoring her question, his urgency lost to the dreams.

That morning, Dapo went downstairs to make Iye’s breakfast and poked his head around the reception door to see his previous evening’s work. He stopped short, rubbing his temple. Canvases surrounded the room, three on easels like dwarf shrubs, three propped up against the radiator, five on the floor. Each was almost identical: hazy, formless masses, the green and purple of the seed. He stared, trying to recall lifting the brush, or choosing the paints.

Even as he walked the stone path that lead to his pear tree, Dapo was rubbing his thumb and forefingers together as if to dislodge stubborn dirt, or grit. He caught himself. He stared at his fingers, lifting them to his nose. They were clean, lavender-sweet. He swore, a low whisper half-caught in his throat, words trapped until they decomposed.