He was Adam in his back garden, giving names to the fluttering things and the blossoms that didn’t heed to the constraints of the planting boxes. He would make crowns out of the flowers and give them to Eve. In the mornings he’d rouse her and they’d shower together, her naked body unsexed, the full bush of her pubic hair a downy pillow, the fatness of her breasts important only because of the sweet nectar they produced.
Adam and Eve didn’t eat knowledge. Eve had known it for years, and gradually she taught Adam the imperfections of his body and tongue. She didn’t bind the shirts and trousers around him, he slipped into the straight jacket voluntarily, because she wore hers so well and he'd always believed she was his God.
By the time the blooms in the flower crown had wilted they had both forgotten about the crown and the garden.
Adam and Eve didn’t eat knowledge. Eve had known it for years, and gradually she taught Adam the imperfections of his body and tongue. She didn’t bind the shirts and trousers around him, he slipped into the straight jacket voluntarily, because she wore hers so well and he'd always believed she was his God.
By the time the blooms in the flower crown had wilted they had both forgotten about the crown and the garden.