He would spend his days in his small square garden. Every day, he would collect oranges and figs and zucchini and fresh basil for his wife. His hands would tremble as he handed her each bag, but she accepted them effortlessly and smiled at him. She would say “thank you” and kiss him on the lips, fetch him a glass of ice water and tell him to stay cool. Then he would go back into the garden.

One day he came in without oranges. His wife smiled, said thank you and kissed him, then looked down at the bags with a puzzled look on her face. She asked him if the tree was bare. He replied that they didn’t have an orange tree. She assured him that they did and he went back out to collect the oranges.

The next day he presented her with only figs and zucchini. His wife smiled, said thank you and kissed him, then looked down at the bags and furrowed her brow. She asked him again if the orange tree was bare and if the basil leaves had been eaten by the bugs. He replied that they didn’t have either plant. She assured him that they did and he went back out to retrieve them.

The next day, he came into the house with just a bag of figs. His wife thanked him, kissed him and took the bag from his hands. She didn’t ask him about the other plants. He went to sit in his chair with the paper. The day after that, his wife found him in his chair, untouched by the dirt or the sun, reading a book. He didn’t know they had a garden, he told her.

And, each day thereafter, he went on forgetting. He forgot the year, and she smiled and she kissed him. He forgot their address, and she smiled and she kissed him. He forgot her name, but he flirted with her and she smiled. On his last day, she kissed him and he forgot to breathe.