The Zucchini Wanted to be a Lover

The zucchini wished to be a

lover. The others (some mushrooms,

bell peppers and an eggplant) thought

it outrageous. ‘But she’s lovely,’

said the zucchini, dreaming of

sweating her in olive oil.

He loved the way she sighed as she

cooked. He loved her deft hands tying 

her apron around the gentle 

curve of her waist. He loved to watch 

her roll her eyes when she tasted 

sauce and knowingly added salt, 

pepper, thyme. He thought his desire 

simple and good. He wanted her

sighs to be about him, about 

the way he might make her feel: joy 

creasing her brow in the night, sweet

comfort opening her eyes to 

him in the morning. What more could

he want in life other than to

love her? On the cutting board lay

pieces of the others, silent  

and dreamless. ‘Her skin is smooth and

excitable,’ the zucchini 

marvelled. He could not stop looking. 

The steepest hills in the Prosecco di Valdobbiadene

She has nothing better to do. 

She sips once, twice, does not stop. A

drift of bubbles clusters at the 

rim, slides to the bottom of the

flute. She hears a burst of peach and

lemon: ‘It’s not that I’m ashamed 

of you.’ She waits for the words to

trail. Another sip. Undertones

of spring flowers. Notes of pear and 

melon. ‘It’s just that maybe my 

standards are higher.’ This feels crisp 

and clean with nice acidity 

and a refreshing dry finish.

It’s the complicated ones that

always interest her. She should stop

now before she gets used to it.