Desmond and Caleb's words go round and round in my head, merging into a whirlpool that makes me dizzy to look at, but I'm too high to direct my attention anywhere else. They're both right, I guess: she has the right to know. But the right to know what? That I'm– That I have non-casual-friendship-coworker feelings for her? Or that those feelings are bound to wither soon enough? That I'll drown them in incessant rain? Or that my parents aren't in Colombia "right now" and actually I've not heard owt from them in a decade? Should I tell her all of it and then–?

'Did you still want to have sex or should we talk?'

I look down. Joe has wedged herself up onto her elbows. I'm straddling her lap, holding her cock in both hands though I think I've been staring at the wall for anywhere up from two minutes without moving.

'Maybe we can talk. Or should I leave?'

'Don't be silly.' Joe hands me a wet wipe to clean the lube off my hands. 'We're friends.'

I climb off her and pins and needles erupt through my claves. Writhing on the bed, I try to massage them away as Joe wipes the dildo, turns off the bullet vibe, and wriggles out of the harness. She pulls her Frank Ocean t-shirt back on over her binder and tugs on her boxers before she rolls onto her side to watch me. I stop kicking my legs around and flop onto the bed like it's my coffin: pin-straight and palms laid on my abdomen.

'So what d'you wanna chat about?' I ask the ceiling. A grimace strains my voice; blood still buzzes in my legs.

'We don't have to do that today. We can just hang out, no benefits.'

No benefits... Error: If I can't give her sex, I have nothing to offer. And now she don't even wanna practice therapy. Result: I should leave.

Sure, we've hung out a few times now without sex or the "practice talking about yourself" questions but today we specifically agreed to meet for the benefits. And she wouldn't want to hang out with me "as a friend" if she knew I had... non-friendship thoughts about her. I'm a liar. I'm disrespecting her boundaries.

Result: I should leave.

(Result: She has the right to know.)

My phone pings with Cece's notification sound and Joe, on the side of the bed where our clothes were shed, fishes it out of my jogger pocket to hand it to me. It's a picture of a butterfly downloaded from the internet as indicated by the watermark. The butterfly has one black and white wing and another that's bright green.

Cece🖤🦋: it's an intersex butterfly!

Cece🖤🦋: it's called bilateral gynandromorphism

Cece🖤🦋: one male half and one female half

Cece🖤🦋: i'm gonna draw so many of these

Cece🖤🦋: i'll never shut up about it

Cece🖤🦋: !!!!!!!!

I relax into a smile. I re-read the messages several times, allowing the orchids in my chest to bloom. Their scent washes away the tension from my body and, combined with Joe's indica, I mellow. I show her the picture before I slot my phone between the bong and a glass of water on her nightstand. The string of hearts on her dresser is growing strong.

'He likes insects,' Joe remarks.

'Yeah.'

I'm still naked. The only cover my body has are the few locs that drape my shoulders rather than being flattened under my back. But Joe watches me gently, her gaze twining with mine with no desire to look elsewhere. She wants to see, not look.

'Tell me something that you like.'

Reference "How to Date" notes: Don't talk about–

'Aztec agricultural and irrigation systems. What do you know about them?'

'Nothing.'

'Well,' I roll onto my side so I can draw onto the mattress between us, 'most of what today is Mexico City used to be lakes. The Aztecs had their capital there too: Tenochtitlan. But it was a pretty small island and they had loads of people to feed without land for agriculture so they created floating gardens that could be accessed by canoe called chinampas. And you might think "oh well that's cool, they worked around their environmental circumstances" but that's not it! Chinampas are some of the most fertile agricultural systems in history.

'The Aztecs created their own soil from the sediment of the lakes—which there were no shortage of cause there were constant run-off from the mountains—and they combined it with weeds and whatever else happened to be around to build... rafts, essentially. They're just big sponges. Then they planted crops onto them and you wouldn't have to water the plants ever. They were held up by planting willow trees on the perimeter. The trees provide shade and when the leaves fall, they would add organic matter to the soil. It's genius. Nature does the majority of the work. You don't need fertilisers or sprinklers.

'The canals between the chinampas also functioned as habitats for aquatic life like axolotls which are now endangered. The Aztecs actually created more biodiversity than had existed there naturally!

'Then the Spanish diverted canals and dried up the lakes and now this city that used to be an island is suffering from water scarcity. There are a few chinampas left and they're doing a lot of work to conserve them, though, so there's hope.

'Water is one of our most scarce resources,' I continue. 'You wouldn't think that when the planet is made up of water but oceans aren't useable for humans. And irrigation consumes... so much water, we're actively running out of it. We can't keep producing the way we do; it works against the environment rather than with it. And working with the environment is what heritage agriculture is all about... Yeah, that's my TED Talk. Thanks for listening.'

My focus glides from my own hands to Joe, hugging her orangutang cuddly toy. I expect to find her asleep but her eyes are trained on me, a smile hovering on her face. 'That's amazing.'

'You reckon?'

She nods.

'You can graft a peach branch onto a nectarine tree and it will continue to produce both fruits. D'you think that's cool?'

'Yeah.'

I beam. The ball of light grows in my chest as I roll onto my side, partially aware that I'm still naked, and reach out to caress her face. Joe accepts the touch, leans into it.

I want this to be real so badly. But it isn't. Reminder: I'm a liar. Reminder: I'm not capable–

Joe interrupts my thoughts. 'I like your hair.' The comment is a little awkward considering we've known each other for six months and, other than growing a centimetre, it hasn't changed. 'You take good care of it.'

'My parents showed me...' I instinctually rope a loc between my fingers, on the periphery of a smile. 'In Ticuna culture, our hair connects us to Pachamama.'

'Have you ever been to Colombia?'

Is she calling me a fraud?

'No.'

'Would you like to?'

I've already started to agree when "of course" dissolves. Would I like to? So long as I've never stepped foot on Colombian soil, I can delude myself with kinship that will crumble as soon as I test it. I'll arrive home only to find signposts in the opposite direction. All I'll manage to prove is just how English I am. Even I'm not delusional enough to expect Mamá and Papá to meet me at the airport with handwritten signs.

Still, a part of me is always going to hope that if I just prove myself to them, that if I can prove I'm a good son for them and for Pachamama, they'll... But I know that won't happen.

Another thought contradicts this one: who are they to ban me from the whole country?

'I think so. With Cece one day.'

Notes

Bilateral gynandromorphism: An organism that has genetically both female and male parts and often characteristics. Bilateral means that you have two evenly split halves.

Chinampas: