A bag of tomatoes threatened me in the crisp drawer. They’re large, round, balloon-shaped, so confident and certain of themselves. Their power in numbers. There are at least six of them and one of me. They say, What are you doing with yourself now? Are you going to cook and finish us before we go bad? How will you race against time? The uneaten avocado slices on my plate cry to me of an innocence I cannot defend myself against. They are perfectly lime green, soft, supple, and ripe, smooth like warm butter with a grassy, subtle aftertaste, and me, tired and alone, perhaps forgotten by the world, alone in my battle to be a person. It was an unfair fight. How could I abandon them? How dare I? A full-time professional with disposable income, with a healthy, albeit plump body, with room left in my stomach. How can I refuse? What right does my fickle heart have to follow something as imaginary and precarious as my inclination? Who would believe me? Who would believe me? I got tired of the daily court hearings between me and the jury of the produce in my fridge. My mother cared more not to waste food than she cared about me.
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