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How I Liked the Avocados by Wendy Oleson
Avocado #1: Ripe before the other two, this is a mystery. Did it cook in my shoe under the plane? I called you in the bathroom on the layover and apologized to your voicemail. I still don't have any messages. When we get home I can't sleep; I eat the avocado in the dark, standing over the wooden cutting board. I eat the skin because it is thin and from your tree. Avocado #2: I take it from my sock drawer and open it before it's ready. I'm greedy. I'm wasteful. Careless. You won't call me back. In the other room, Greg watches television. The fruit is hard and yellow around the pit. It sinks in my stomach, and I have to throw some away, concealed in a paper towel, buried under three days of garbage, buried. When I return to the couch, he puts his feet on my lap, then lifts them away, confused. Honey? Weren't you going to get us a snack? I have green flesh under my fingernails. Avocado #3: Greg comes home early. How strange, he says—he doesn't remember buying that avocado, but there it is, splayed across our cutting board. We eat it standing up. He gets out the salt and tells me about a new account: the account is good. Or is the avocado good? When the food is gone, I don't quite believe it. Like a dog, I still smell the skin. I see the oil that darkens the wood of the cutting board. Greg shrugs off his jacket and begins to unbutton his shirt. He smiles because it's Friday. I step to the sink and turn the wood over and over under the faucet, rubbing green into the grain with my fingertips. I must stop checking my phone. The only problem is you gave me a fourth. I'm almost sure of it, and I can't imagine what kind of mess I'll find if I find it. I remember packing that morning: somewhere between rolled up jersey knits and soft denim skirts, I planted that avocado like a seed. I still see myself crouched over the suitcase, and I watch the busy hands of a dumb, rosy-cheeked girl who thought she had something special to hide, something rich promised to her. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors. Wendy Oleson is a PhD student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where she reads for Prairie Schooner. She has an MFA from Oregon State. Read the interview. Robinson Accola creates artwork for SmokeLong Quarterly as needed. Issue Twenty-Eight (July 25, 2010): Young Waitresses by Steve Almond «» Frank by Matt Baker «» The Life and Times of Dmitri Kulikov by Tobias Amadon Bengelsdorf «» Scapegoat by Thomas Cooper «» What You Could Catch Me Bumping by Craig Davis «» Complicit by Gay Degani «» What You See When You Think of Home by John Mark DeMoss «» In the Attic by Murray Dunlap «» A Flower Thing by Jen Gann «» Seahorse Sex by Molly Giles «» Gertie by Kyle Hemmings «» Vertigo by Ann Hillesland «» Rock by Stephanie Johnson «» A Shot of Whatever by David LaBounty «» Palo Alto by Paul Lisicky «» The Lake House by Michelle McMahon «» Hell Is a Headline by Emily McPhillips «» How I Liked the Avocados by Wendy Oleson «» Regrets by Bridget Pelkie «» What Passes for Normal by Michelle Reale «» Avalanche by Joseph Scapellato «» Last Seen Leaving by Laura Ellen Scott «» Explicable by Sabrina Stoessinger «» A Fistful of Buttercups by Nancy Stebbins «» My Maggie by Eugenia F. Tsutsumi «» The Ghost by Russell Whitaker «» The Strain of Collusion by xTx «» Interviews: Steve Almond «» Matt Baker «» Tobias Amadon Bengelsdorf «» Thomas Cooper «» Craig Davis «» Gay Degani «» John Mark DeMoss «» Murray Dunlap «» Jen Gann «» Molly Giles «» Kyle Hemmings «» Ann Hillesland «» Stephanie Johnson «» David LaBounty «» Michelle McMahon «» Emily McPhillips «» Wendy Oleson «» Bridget Pelkie «» Michelle Reale «» Joseph Scapellato «» Laura Ellen Scott «» Nancy Stebbins «» Sabrina Stoessinger «» Eugenia F. Tsutsumi «» xTx «» Cover Art "Wall Street Must Be Tripping" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor |
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