My husband had a dream that we got back home after our vacation, and someone had started gardening the entire plot of land where we live. The man didn’t speak to him, and my husband tried to tell him that he couldn’t just plant things and eat from his land. The man didn’t speak to him and just kept working.
Our garden this year is dead. My husband didn’t want to plant anything, and I haven’t wanted to invest in where we live since March, since we started fighting and had no sex life to calm us down. It’s gone to seed with weeds everywhere. Neither of us even bothered to cover it properly. We just let it go.
I understand the dream. The silent gardener is my lover, more the ex-cop than Eric, since Eric is the closest thing to a cocker spaniel in human form that I’ve ever met: cute, always ready to go but hard to take seriously.
The whole idea of a secret garden, a secret sex-life, is what has been making me so unhappy; not because it exists, but because I have to lie about it. Somehow my husband knows that there is someone there in my life, someone making things grow where he didn’t plan for them to.