It was a rather sunny day. Unlike the cold winter, I walked into the restaurant and was directed to order the fruit bowl. I wanted to order the salad, but I guess it was alright. I wasn’t hungry as such, but it was lunch time. At 12PM, everyone ate. So, I guess, I should as well.
I went to the fruit bar and was handed a banana. It looked rotten. I did not want to eat it. He peeled it, carefully. He put it in my plate. I guess I should eat it, right? I brought it near my mouth. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth wide. I still didn’t want to eat it. It was in my plate, and I wanted to throw it away. But he would get mad. So, I ate it. It made my stomach curl. But I ate it. It was 12PM. Everyone eats at 12PM. If I didn’t eat it, he would put it in someone else’s plate. Or worse, give me another fruit that I didn’t like. It was my fault. I walked in the restaurant, even when I was not hungry, but if you walk into a restaurant you need to eat, so I ate it. I ate it even though it made me puke. I ate it because I had to.
My mouth still full, he pushed me forward in the line. There was no hurry, but lunch was served at 12PM. Everyone ate lunch at 12PM. So I moved forward. Cherries. Fresh red cherries. Delicately assembled cherries that were held together by a twig. He asked me to serve the cherries, politely. I refused. They looked so innocent. Are cherries made to be eaten? Everyone eats lunch at 12PM. He looked hungry. He asked again. I didn’t answer. I passed the cherries. He smiled. I guess he paid for the cherries. He gets to eat them, right?
He takes them in his fingers and lightly presses them. Not so light anymore. He digs his nail through the skin. The cherry juices seeps through and colours his finger. His anger rages. How dare it stain? Cherries are supposed to be silent. Cherries are not supposed to be red. If you abuse cherries, they aren’t supposed to burst in his palms. They aren’t supposed to bleed until they reach his teeth. He has to pierce them to eat them. At 12PM, everyone eats. So does he.
His mouth stained, his tongue yearning, his stomach hungry; I was pushed forward. I was told that it isn’t polite to talk while eating. So I remained silent. Until he squeezed the orange. Forcefully grabbed it. Peeled it open. Shredded the fiber. Fiber can get stuck in his teeth, and that would be evidence of the meal. In case he wants to eat again, it might hurt his gums. He will have to floss it. Shredding is more convenient. Oranges are born to be torn. So he tears them. He pierces through and reaches the pulp and devours the tanginess. The juice splatters, but he ignores the mess. He doesn’t clean after. The next man is impatient for his turn.
My stomach full, heart shredded, mind digged – everyone eats at 12PM. It was 12:30PM. Lunch was over. But the next man awaited his fruit bowl.
When a seed is implanted, a seedling is expected, and then a plant, and then a fruit. And the fruit is meant to be nourished, and the fruit is given sunshine, and the fruit is watered, and you tell the fruit you love it, and you watch it grow, and you watch it ripen, and you watch it become firm, and when its ready to be eaten. You pluck it. You don’t ask. You pluck. Because the world is a plate, and it’s 12PM somewhere. And the innocent fruit is eaten. You eat it, unapologetically.
He eats it, the next man does, you too.
It was 12PM. Everyone eats at 12PM. And I thought you weren’t everyone.
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