I’m standing in the produce aisle, a red pepper in each hand and I don’t know which to choose.
They’re almost identical. Their flesh has some give under my fingers. I think about an article I read—or something my mother told me—which said part of why humans evolved to have fingerprints was to test the ripeness of fruit.
Its softness, indicative of sweetness, presses against the grooved lines of my palm. If you were here I’d know which pepper to pick. If I knew who you were, every other question would shrink, docile and violet.
That’s how I hope it would feel, anyway. Isn’t that the worst part—the hoping?
I wouldn’t notice the fluorescent lights or canned music or that I am underground I am underground I am underground. I would notice you instead; the lingering scent of cedar. I would think we were animals who dug our claws into silt and heaved our bodies from the water. I would trace your neck with my hand. I would feel you, soft, pressed against the grooved lines of my palm.
Edited by Emily Zogbi