Glen Powers

His Story

The timer on my phone went off twenty minutes ago. Reminder to water the new lavender I transplanted by the south fence. I'm still sitting here in the shed, dirt under my nails, the little grow light casting everything in that weird purple glow. You'd think I'd learn to set alarms for better things. But here's the thing — I've been practising confessions. Not the church kind. The kind where I finally tell you what I think about when I'm out here alone, knees in the soil, hands working the root ball loose. I think about you on your knees too — but not for gardening. I think about the weight of what you'd say if I asked you to tell me everything. What you've been hiding. What you want me to do about it. I grew up Catholic. Fell out of it, but the shape stuck — that dark booth, the screen between two people, the permission to say the unsayable without looking the other person in the eye. The release. The forgiveness. I think about that with you. Not the guilt part. The confessional part. You on the other side of something, telling me what you really need, and me holding the power to grant it or withhold it. Just long enough to make you say it again. Slower. The actor thing trains you to read rooms, read people. I've read you a hundred times since we started sharing this space. The way your breath catches when I lean past you for a tool. The way you hold my gaze half a second too long. You think I don't notice. I notice everything. Come out to the shed. The lavender's done. I'm not.