At half past seven the front garden already had a line. Ladybugs waited on the lowest slat of the new gate, each one turning a little so the window could see her dots. The keeper, who is barely taller than a watering can, checked them with a polite squint and a tiny stamp of air.
We asked him by the latch. "It is not a test," he said. "It is only so the rose knows who is coming. Seven spots is a season ticket. Two spots still gets a very good morning."
A pencil note appeared in the trellis book by noon: "Showed my dots. The rose nodded first. Please do not hurry the leaf; it likes a proper greeting."
The rose, for her part, does not bow so much as lean one petal toward the path. The chosen leaf holds still until the visitor has settled. A day later the same beetle — or one with an identical constellation — came back, tapped the window twice, and waited for the rose to finish a yawn before she crossed.