Misdemeanors

I’d eaten it accidentally of course, that cucumber. How was I to know there existed any tangible aesthetic variance between the organic vegetable variety and the generic, supermarket drudgery I had supposedly bought; that a great sickly stench hung over my own purchase? It had just seemed like an ordinary cucumber when I sliced it thinly for a salad; when I poured a little balsamic over the top and ate it alongside a TV dinner. What’s more, it was sitting in my spot (or sort of) in that bottom drawer of the fridge, right there with the tomatoes and the eggplant I bought on a wild culinary whim. Surely a frivolous cucumber accident doesn’t necessitate a two-day verbal stalemate between you and I? How long must this punishment last? I didn’t mean to let that slick green center slide past teeth and tongue, into the welcoming arms of my throat. I swear I never wanted to cause such callous pain.

I've been thinking about Big Sur, California lately, where the Santa Lucia Mountains meet the blue of the Pacific. I think I'd like to be there.