Zoya meanders by every few minutes to criticize my technique. “Deeper,” she instructs, jabbing at the soil. “The roots need room to spread.”
Men used to piss themselves in fear when I walked into a room. Now, I’m kneeling in a garden bed, taking orders from two grandmothers, while doing my damndest to avoid gawking at the woman I f****d into oblivion last night.
The whole time, that woman is crouched at my side. I tried to tell her early on to go easy, to rest often for the babies’ sakes, but she told me that there was a sharp-edged hoe in the shed that I could go f**k myself with, and I decided it was best to not offer any additional advice.
There’s enough danger percolating between us anyhow. Our fingers touch as she passes me another seedling. “Is that good enough?” she asks, poking
