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.
No comments:
Post a Comment