while i was making a smoothie for breakfast this morning it occurred to me that i was using all the bruised, off-colored and funny looking strawberries to throw into the blender.
then i looked on top of my refrigerator and noticed too that the sole banana left was a soft old gereatric. when i brought it down and began to undress it the skin came off like the rotten skin of an onion. inside was a soft, bruised naked fruit lying on a sanitary white plate. it was the last to be picked from the bunch and had grown dark and spotted from lack of touch, far outliving its usefulness for something like cereal or fruitsalad. i kept it in a wooden bowl with a loaf of amish bread so it was at least patially out of view of visitors who might come over.
this old piece of fruit lay on the plate like a virgin about to be touched, quivering. i was very heistant. i picked up a sharp knife and laid it to its flesh; it required no pressure at all, like slicing butter. i cut it into slices, like i would for cereal. but it wasn't being used for cereal. this piece of fruit had been put under by my knife. i scooped up the the pieces and gently placed them in with the strawberries.
the strawberries were still alive at this point, in close quarters at the bottom of the bowl. they were a mixed bunch--darkies and albinos, small tart little ones and queerberries; the ones with bloated heads and born without stems; ones bruised by rough treatment, once pristine with bright futures but now marred by permanent scars. they watched through the glass at the green pint container filled with cosmo fruit. two radishes had snuck into the bunch of strawberries and blended in almost indelibly. but the master knows his fruit, and threw them out onto the cold wet laminate before they bittered the whole bunch.
the clock hands are moving slowly towards 10, and the master has a luncheon to go to. was this a sadistic fetish, they thought. the retarded berries didn't really think, and the banana just rested, but the rest were starting to make noise. what's going to happen? and what the fuck is poking me?
before they can ponder their predicament anymore, the master, with a press of his finger, sets his sythe into motion with a whirl. and after a few seconds (which feels like tens of thousands of lifetimes to the fruit), there are berries and bananas no more. with sweet iced cream added, something new has been created. the master thinks it is delicious; the master loves bruised fruit. the cosmo berries see what's going on and ask the master if he is hungry, if he would like any of their choicest; but their suggestions fall on deaf ears as the master sips his masterpiece and sits down at his computer, where he spends too much time writing about silly things like fruit.
By Beth Orton