Fruit Boy
Uhm, so, this one's a bit longer so I'll put it under a cut.
I found him in the produce aisle, frowning speculatively at a mound of peaches. My breath snagged on something in my throat, and I paused for three heartbeats before I continued walking. He was experimentally poking at one of the peaches when I walked by, my empty basket swinging by my side.
I said hello to him, and exchanged the obligatory pleasantries, but when I made an attempt to wrap up the conversation, he surprised me by making it interesting.
I figured out why you and I didn’t work, he said. There was a tint of pride in the statement, an unmistakable lining to his words that revealed one of his more despised qualities.
I begrudgingly let him walk with me as I sifted through carrots, peas, lettuce. This should be entertaining.
Bad timing, he explained. Bad timing was the cause of all of our problems. It just wasn’t in the stars.
I silently noted his purposeful use of the past tense. I hated to do it, but I had to preempt any stupid notions he might be developing about the stars smiling on us now.
You can’t blame fate, I told him. The only reason it isn’t meant to be is because we aren’t right for each other.
Present tense.
He followed me into the bread aisle. I wanted bagels, the kind that are already cut in half.
We’re great as friends, he remarked, almost hopefully.
That’s true, I said, picking through onion bagels. I wanted plain bagels. I crowed inwardly when I found my bagel treasure, but a second later I dropped them in shock and disgust. Egg bagels. Vomit.
He was talking about friendship, something about how it’s the basis for all good relationships, building a solid ground and blah blah blah.
Not for ours, I said. There has to be something else other than friendship for that axiom to be considered true. We don’t have that one thing.
He seized a package of my desired plain bagels. He held them out for me. Maybe we can find that thing, he said. Maybe we can create it, build it for ourselves.
I noted the long-due expiration date on the plastic bag. Peering through the transparent folds of plastic, I glimpsed tiny swamps of mold festering on my beloved bagels.
I’m not in love with you.
I dropped the statement on him in a manner not unlike how I had dropped the unwanted egg bagels a minute ago.
I found my bagels and wandered over to the checkout line. I gazed at the glowing number five looming over my cashier. Her name tag said “Joanna.” She looked at me suspiciously, as if I might run out the door with her precious groceries.
Feelings change, he said hopefully, as if he were the first person to say this.
Yes, they do, I said. Don’t get me wrong, I did love you, once. But feelings do change.
I handed Joanna my $6.35 and regarded her instant love and trust towards me, like that of a child. Suddenly these were my bagels, my carrots, my snow peas, my lettuce, and, just as suddenly, I was respectable. It was as if my cashier had instantaneously learned everything about me from the feel of my money in her nicotine-stained fingers. She immediately trusted me and eagerly handed over my new belongings, carefully enclosed within. . . paper or plastic?
I thought maybe he was still waiting for me to say something to him, so I told him goodbye. He seemed to want something more, but I knew he wasn’t going to try to stop me from leaving. He had never tried to stop me before. So, I left. Again.
I found him in the produce aisle, frowning speculatively at a mound of peaches. My breath snagged on something in my throat, and I paused for three heartbeats before I continued walking. He was experimentally poking at one of the peaches when I walked by, my empty basket swinging by my side.
I said hello to him, and exchanged the obligatory pleasantries, but when I made an attempt to wrap up the conversation, he surprised me by making it interesting.
I figured out why you and I didn’t work, he said. There was a tint of pride in the statement, an unmistakable lining to his words that revealed one of his more despised qualities.
I begrudgingly let him walk with me as I sifted through carrots, peas, lettuce. This should be entertaining.
Bad timing, he explained. Bad timing was the cause of all of our problems. It just wasn’t in the stars.
I silently noted his purposeful use of the past tense. I hated to do it, but I had to preempt any stupid notions he might be developing about the stars smiling on us now.
You can’t blame fate, I told him. The only reason it isn’t meant to be is because we aren’t right for each other.
Present tense.
He followed me into the bread aisle. I wanted bagels, the kind that are already cut in half.
We’re great as friends, he remarked, almost hopefully.
That’s true, I said, picking through onion bagels. I wanted plain bagels. I crowed inwardly when I found my bagel treasure, but a second later I dropped them in shock and disgust. Egg bagels. Vomit.
He was talking about friendship, something about how it’s the basis for all good relationships, building a solid ground and blah blah blah.
Not for ours, I said. There has to be something else other than friendship for that axiom to be considered true. We don’t have that one thing.
He seized a package of my desired plain bagels. He held them out for me. Maybe we can find that thing, he said. Maybe we can create it, build it for ourselves.
I noted the long-due expiration date on the plastic bag. Peering through the transparent folds of plastic, I glimpsed tiny swamps of mold festering on my beloved bagels.
I’m not in love with you.
I dropped the statement on him in a manner not unlike how I had dropped the unwanted egg bagels a minute ago.
I found my bagels and wandered over to the checkout line. I gazed at the glowing number five looming over my cashier. Her name tag said “Joanna.” She looked at me suspiciously, as if I might run out the door with her precious groceries.
Feelings change, he said hopefully, as if he were the first person to say this.
Yes, they do, I said. Don’t get me wrong, I did love you, once. But feelings do change.
I handed Joanna my $6.35 and regarded her instant love and trust towards me, like that of a child. Suddenly these were my bagels, my carrots, my snow peas, my lettuce, and, just as suddenly, I was respectable. It was as if my cashier had instantaneously learned everything about me from the feel of my money in her nicotine-stained fingers. She immediately trusted me and eagerly handed over my new belongings, carefully enclosed within. . . paper or plastic?
I thought maybe he was still waiting for me to say something to him, so I told him goodbye. He seemed to want something more, but I knew he wasn’t going to try to stop me from leaving. He had never tried to stop me before. So, I left. Again.