The Foliage of a Dishonest Man

Fiction

Dear Clara, I forgot to tell you about Julian's new habit. It started last October. He told me he had finished the taxes, and suddenly, a cluster of clear, glass-like leaves appeared on his right wrist. They are quite beautiful, in a cold sort of way, but they catch on everything. I have to use the small embroidery scissors to trim them back every few days. He doesn't seem to feel them growing, though he winces when I snip too close to the skin. It is a strange thing to manage, like pulling weeds from a living carpet. Dear Clara, The pruning is taking more of my time now. Julian had a particularly bad week. He claimed he was staying late at the office, but by Tuesday, his collar was thick with those crystalline shards. They were jagged this time, almost like frost on a windowpane. I spent an hour in the bedroom with a basin of warm water and the shears. He sat perfectly still, staring at the wall, while I cleared the foliage from his neck. We didn't speak. There is a certain rhythm to it now: the snip, the clink of the crystal hitting the porcelain, the silence. I find I don't even ask what the lies are about anymore. The leaves tell me everything I need to know. Dear Clara, I bought a new set of precision clippers from the apothecary. They are sharper and make the work quicker. Julian has become very quiet. He rarely speaks unless it is necessary, which means his skin stays mostly clear. It is a peaceful sort of arrangement, I suppose. We sit in the parlor together, reading our books, and I occasionally reach over to pluck a stray leaf from his knuckle. They are smaller now, almost like dew drops. I think we have simply reached an understanding. We are learning to live in the spaces between the words. I still find the way they catch the afternoon light quite lovely, even if they are markers of his failures.