Laura Harrier

She would show him the beach piece she had been cultivating in a tub of sand.

Her husband had helped her steal the first plant directly off the dunes.

They went at night in the Jeep and dug it up from a spot she had memorized near the boardwalk.

He was drunk, but functional.

Functional?

They sat on the rear bumper and kissed for a long time before getting the shovel.

Now she wrestled the bucket into the hand truck and wheeled the whole thing out to the man standing in her store.

He would not know that only animals can eat the berries and if humans chew them they can become paralyzed and forget to keep breathing.

You don't struggle.

It's peaceful.

But you can die.

This would have been a better death for the man's wife.

And he could have been there with her, curl next to her in the sand, watching the sun go horizontal out over the water while she let her cheek rest on the sand, and he squeezed her shoulder, telling her that he was ready to be honest, that he would accept the things about himself that weren't so perfect, that were a little underdeveloped or unpleasant.

I've been raising these in the back.

They normally grow out on dunes.

They have really deep roots, so that's good in that environment.

Beach peas, they're more purple than peach, but maybe something like this would really make the arrangement.

You know, in addition.

One thing, it's odd, but you kind of have to be careful about these little berries.

You see them?