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At the end of their first date — head buzzing, room spinning, ears ringing — Leila invited Josh home. They giggled while undressing, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and it wasn’t until morning that Josh could take notice of the wilted and crisped and yellowing leaves of the plants arranged throughout the space.

“They always die; I can’t keep something alive for more than a month,” she sighed, placing a mug of coffee in front of him as she dropped down on the couch. She listed off soil acidity, and watering schedules, and light requirements.

“Why keep getting plants?” he asked. Tilting her head, he watched her expression pace through surprise and anger and embarrassment until she finally looked away with a half-shrug and said, “How else am I going to practice?”

He bought her a succulent that rotted from stem to leaves from overwatering; a spider plant whose roots and leaves turned the same mushy brown; and a monstera that turned a sickly shade of yellow.

Six months in he joked she had a knack for killing things. She quieted, then cried, and snapped in the resulting fight, wanting him to leave. From the sidewalk he watched her draw the blinds and scratched the back of his head before walking home, hands in his pockets.

He showed up the next day with a snake plant, a moisture meter, and a pair of grow lights as apology, and made her laugh when he told her, “If we can’t keep this one alive, we’re officially hopeless.”

They found a spot for it a little away from the window in the living room, and set up the lights on a timer, and then sat on the floor to look at it. As the shadows lengthened in the afternoon she put her head on his shoulder, and linked their fingers together, and quietly apologized for the night before. He half-smiled, wishing she’d been looking, and said, “Hey, how else are we going to practice?”