Ever since, two summers ago, Joe Marino had begun to come into her bed, a preposterous fecundity had overtaken the staked plans, out in the side garden where the southwestern sun slanted in through the line of willows each long afternoon. The crooked little tomato branches, pulpy and pale as if made of cheap green paper, broke under the weight of so much fruit; there was something frantic in such fertility, a crying-out like that of children frantic to please. Of plants, tomatoes seemed the most human, eager and fragile and prone to rot. Picking the watery orange-red orbs, Alexandra felt she was cupping a giant lover's testicles in her hand.
Two summers ago, Joe Marino started sharing a bed with Alexandra, leading to an unexpected abundance in her garden. The plants thrived under the southwestern sun, with twisted tomato branches bearing an overwhelming crop. This surge of growth seemed desperate, echoing the eager, fragile nature of children. The sheer volume of fruit suggested both vitality and a tendency towards decay.
As Alexandra picked the ripe, watery tomatoes, she experienced a peculiar...
