The Weigh-In

The polytunnel smelled of damp earth and green violence. It was a cathedral of PVC and steel, curved ribs arching overhead like the ribs of some great, slumbering beast, draped in thick plastic that rattled in the evening wind. Inside, the air was heavy, saturated with the sweet, musky scent of ripening fruit. Rows of broad, veined leaves stretched toward the weak overhead lights, their stems thick as a man’s wrist, cradling the prize entries: three massive, ribbed pumpkins in each of our designated zones, glowing like orange lanterns in the half-dark. Dew clung to the plastic ceiling, dripping with a rhythmic, maddening *plip-plip* onto the corrugated floor.

I was sitting on an overturned milk crate, knees drawn up, glaring at the digital scale that had just cracked its screen with a sound like a gunshot. The numbers were gone. So was my margin of victory.

Aaron leaned against the support pole nearest the gate, arms crossed over a chest that seemed too broad for the narrow aisle. He wore a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms mapped with old scars and new dirt. He didn’t look sorry. He looked amused. His dark hair was tucked behind one ear, a stray lock falling back over his forehead, and his eyes—warm, hazel, and irritatingly calm—tracked my movement as I kicked the plastic leg of the scale.