Thorn of the Pear

"Did you know pears are part of the rose family?" Gene asked, looking up from the article he was reading. "I didn't."

"I...didn't either," George said flatly, off into space, still looking down at his own phone.

"It says here a lot of fruits are actually related to them too - apples, peaches, cherries, apricots. That's wild."

Long silence. "Mm-hmm. It...is."

Gene stared off. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a pear tree? I could just head out and grab some pears and make a tart sometime. That'd be so neat, don't you think?"

"Neat?" George sneered. "I mean, I like tarts I guess."

George's "neat?" pricked Gene's heart. They'd been lovers for six years - sharing space for four. And though they generally enjoyed their times together, there were moments like these that stung. Gene would try to connect with George, to dream with George, to say something that would interest him (or at least get a response from him). It wasn't about pears or roses or trees or tarts. It was "here's the love I have to give; show me some sign of your love, please." And all Gene got was a sneer at his joy.

"Neat?" It made Gene feel so silly and worthless and small.

"Okay," Gene sighed. "I'm gonna turn on a podcast and lie in bed. Do you need anything?"

George snapped back with a wink, "Oh, you're lying now?"

"I'm sorry...what?"

"You said you were going to lie in bed. Why would you lie to me?"

Gene rolled his eyes and headed to the bedroom. He felt trapped and not trapped. In a cage with the door open.

He turned on the new episode of My Favorite Murder and laid back in the bed, on top of the covers. He balanced one of George's pillows across his chest to rest his hands.

When some time had passed, Gene's phone buzzed, and he saw an Amazon order alert: "Golden State Fruit Pears to Compare Deluxe Gift" and "Unfinished Natural Wood Craft Dowel Rods, (6 x 1/8in), 100 count," arriving Monday, August 23.

What the fuck? George would use Gene's account sometimes for the Prime shipping. He'd pay for the items himself, but still.

Gene popped his head out of the bedroom. "Hey," he began, "Did you just order pears and dowel rods on my account for some reason?"

George was already laughing. "What? No!"

"Okay, well you did so..."

"It's just for a project. A neat gift for you!"

Gene bristled at "neat." He could call him out, but George would deny using the word on purpose. It was all so humiliating.

"Alright," Gene sighed. "I'm gonna leave you and your jokes and go to sleep."

***

On Monday, August 23, Gene stopped at the market on his way home from work, and then pulled into their building's parking complex just after 6pm. George worked Monday evenings, and Gene had been finding himself enjoying that weekly respite more and more. He would turn on the news or a podcast while he cooked dinner for himself, tidy up the place, take a bath, do some skincare - all the things he liked. Glad to be missing George for the evening.

Gene entered the apartment with his shopping bag, dropped his keys in the bin, and breezed into the kitchen to get dinner started. But there on the dining room table was something that immediately repulsed him.

"What the fuck?"

He recognized the large planter that George had pulled off the porch. It had contained a small rose bush that had been scorched during a recent heat wave. (Gene had been out of town for a few days, and George had forgotten to water). Dry remnants of its delicate branches reached out of the soil like little bones.

Also rising out of the dirt were twelve dowel rods. And on the end of each dowel rod was a pear - looking like a row of impaled heads. Juice running down the dowels in a sticky mess. The dowels themselves had been carefully whittled to create the effect of small thorns splintering off of them. Gene ran his finger over one of them and felt the prick.

He texted, "May I ask what this art project is in my kitchen?"

George: [3 laughing emojis]

George: It's your gift, do you like it?

Gene: Wtf is it?

George: A bouquet of a dozen pears! Since they're roses and all. BWAHAHAHAHA!

Gene seethed. All this effort and money and time. For a stupid waste of a project headed to the trash. No care or consideration. All to make him feel silly about pears. Or conversations. Or dreams.

Gene took a deep breath, gently pulled the twelve murdered pears from their stakes, and laid them to rest on a bed of paper towels. He unearthed the dowels and dropped them in the rubbish. Then he dug his hands deep into the soil to remove the last of the rose bush's root system. Gene wept.

After returning the planter to the porch, Gene pulled out a cutting board and began slicing the pears - with precision, with dignity. He squeezed a lemon over them, and dressed their bodies with brown sugar and cornstarch, sprinkling cinnamon as a spice to anoint the dead.

One final touch for the filling - a single drop of rose extract.

In another bowl, Gene cut butter as his grief into the flour, sugar and salt. Cutting and turning. Splashing in the bitter of the buttermilk and the cleansing of the ice water.

In a springform pan, he formed the tart - his masterpiece. Every pear placed perfectly within the crust - a fertile grave. Could a new pear tree grow there?

After 55 minutes at 375, Gene broke open the springform pan and placed the finished baked perfection to cool on a pastry rack.

When George returned around 11pm, Gene wasn't home. He wasn't responding to texts or answering his phone. George saw the tart and the note, "Enjoy!" placed with care. He cut himself a slice and scarfed it down without joy. He slid the plate and fork into the dishwasher. George looked around the spotless kitchen.

Gene was such a neat baker.