The Rooftop Garden – Part 2: The First Ripe One

By February, the tomatoes were ripe. Hana found the first one on a Saturday morning, deep red and warm from the sun, hanging from a stem she had nearly given up on. She picked it carefully, held it up to the light and laughed out loud.

"Theo," she called over the wall. "It's happened."

He appeared a moment later, barefoot, a towel around his neck and a mug of coffee in his hand. He looked at the tomato, then at her, and his face lit up.

"Told you," he said. "It just needed a bit of love."

"And a stern talking-to."

"Same thing, in gardening."

She tossed him the tomato. He caught it, grinning, and bit into it straight away, juice running down his wrist.

"Oh," he said, eyes closed. "That's the best thing I've eaten all year."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm not," said Theo, opening his eyes. "You've grown something real, Hana. I can taste it."

That evening, they sat on her rooftop with a bottle of the good wine and a bowl of bruschetta made from the first few tomatoes, the string lights swaying above them and the city glittering beyond the rooftops. The air was warm and smelled of basil and rain that hadn't quite arrived.

"Can I ask you something?" said Theo, pouring the wine.

"Yes."

"Have you ever thought about why we spent six months talking over a wall, when we could have walked round the stairwell and knocked on each other's doors?"

Hana laughed, a little breathlessly. "Because it was easier to be brave from a distance."

"Exactly," said Theo. "And now I'm here, and I'm not sure what to do with my hands."

"Put them in the wine," said Hana.

He laughed, and then he didn't. He set down his glass, carefully, and turned to face her.

"Hana," he said. "I like you. I've liked you since the first morning you yelled at the aphids. And I'd like to kiss you, if you'll let me, before I lose my nerve and start talking about lemons."

Her heart was hammering. "Yes," she said, very quietly. "But you have to promise you won't talk about lemons afterwards."

"No lemons," said Theo. "I promise."

She leaned in first, slowly, and he met her halfway, his hand coming up to rest against her cheek, warm and careful. The kiss was soft and unhurried, tasting of wine and tomato and the faint sweetness of the summer evening. When they parted, she was smiling so widely her face hurt.

"Green?" he asked, low.

"Green," said Hana. "Very green."

"Good," said Theo. "Then I'll tell you the one thing I've been dying to say since October."

"Lemons?"

"No," he said, grinning. "I'm moving the shade cloth to my side of the wall. So we can share the afternoon sun."

She laughed, and kissed him again, and the first ripe tomato sat on the table between them, glowing red in the light of the string lamps, like a small, sweet promise that the rest of the summer would be good.