At intermission, the young man brought me champagne in a shallow glass the shape of a lotus flower. “Your face is turning brown,” he said. “You might consider a larger hat.” 

“Does the nation not need laborers?” I asked. 

“Yes, but also women.” 

I smiled and tied my two silk gloves into a knot. I tried to summon what you might say, your loudness like a trumpet of Gabriel, but you weren’t there. “I believe you’d find there’s much to learn from nature that cannot be perceived when fully swaddled.” If you could have heard me, only a month in the field and declaring myself a botanist! The grand performance of women, perhaps: turning what little we are given into how much we can make. 

“I have no objections to a learned lady, but isn’t that the purpose of books? Just as one might cherish a clean home but employ a housemaid to create the effect.” 

“You prefer the veneer.” 

“I prefer,” he said, taking the hand of mine that wasn’t twisting fabric,” beauty—in any form.” 

I stopped away from him, dear. I did not say, I have more than I need; I will give you the surplus for free. 

From The Weeds: A Novel (86)

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2023

Read-alikes: 

• Christine Lai, Landscapes
• Ruth Ozeki, The Book of Form and Emptiness 
• Diane Wilson, The Seed Keeper