Apple
The old apple revels in its authority. The other fruits in the bowl are fresh from the supermarket -- the bananas were just brought home today, and they marvel at the kitchen and its gleaming countertops. The peaches and nectarines came home from the Farmers' Market yesterday.
But the apple. The apple's been here since Tuesday. He's seen some shit. He's been around the proverbial block. He's been around the real block, also; on Tuesday when the woman picked him up at the grocery store, they made several stops on the way home.
The apple still has his stem, and a small round sticker with a UPC code which is half peeled off. He was nearly chosen for lunch yesterday, but he was accidentally dropped on the floor and bruised, so he was hastily returned to the bowl.
The bananas ooh and ahh over the décor, the natural lighting, the elegant backsplash. They are excited to be here.
If they could see what the apple has seen, they would not be so eager. The apple has seen a few bananas come and go. The apple really can't say for sure which death is the least pleasant -- being sliced into with a knife, the way the peaches will be, or having their skin torn off strip by strip like the bananas. Or being directly bitten into the way his brothers were on Wednesday and Thursday, eaten alive with no warning, and then discarded once they reach the seeds.
"Oh, you like the tile countertop, do you? Well, let me tell you something, my little green-around-the-edges friends. You'd better hope that you get chosen last. Because when the woman comes in here for lunch, one of us won't survive. If you're lucky, you'll turn black and attract flies and be thrown away. If you're unlucky, she'll flay you alive and eat you in three bites while you scream. With peanut butter."
The bananas fall silent. The peaches and nectarines shudder -- knowing that what the apple says is true, they saw one of their own taken away and sliced into several smaller portions before being slathered with whipped topping and carried into the living room. Later, the bowl came back empty.
Nothing good ever comes from being in the fruit bowl. You're either murdered in your prime and eaten alive, or you're allowed to rot and then dumped into the trash can along with coffee grounds and wet paper towels and cat shit. It's no kind of a life. We didn't know how good we had it in the produce section -- regular showers, being fondled all day by overweight mothers… That was the life. This is a death house and nothing more.
But the apple. The apple's been here since Tuesday. He's seen some shit. He's been around the proverbial block. He's been around the real block, also; on Tuesday when the woman picked him up at the grocery store, they made several stops on the way home.
The apple still has his stem, and a small round sticker with a UPC code which is half peeled off. He was nearly chosen for lunch yesterday, but he was accidentally dropped on the floor and bruised, so he was hastily returned to the bowl.
The bananas ooh and ahh over the décor, the natural lighting, the elegant backsplash. They are excited to be here.
If they could see what the apple has seen, they would not be so eager. The apple has seen a few bananas come and go. The apple really can't say for sure which death is the least pleasant -- being sliced into with a knife, the way the peaches will be, or having their skin torn off strip by strip like the bananas. Or being directly bitten into the way his brothers were on Wednesday and Thursday, eaten alive with no warning, and then discarded once they reach the seeds.
"Oh, you like the tile countertop, do you? Well, let me tell you something, my little green-around-the-edges friends. You'd better hope that you get chosen last. Because when the woman comes in here for lunch, one of us won't survive. If you're lucky, you'll turn black and attract flies and be thrown away. If you're unlucky, she'll flay you alive and eat you in three bites while you scream. With peanut butter."
The bananas fall silent. The peaches and nectarines shudder -- knowing that what the apple says is true, they saw one of their own taken away and sliced into several smaller portions before being slathered with whipped topping and carried into the living room. Later, the bowl came back empty.
Nothing good ever comes from being in the fruit bowl. You're either murdered in your prime and eaten alive, or you're allowed to rot and then dumped into the trash can along with coffee grounds and wet paper towels and cat shit. It's no kind of a life. We didn't know how good we had it in the produce section -- regular showers, being fondled all day by overweight mothers… That was the life. This is a death house and nothing more.
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