Cucumber rinds on the floor. The rhythmic sound of the peeler moving like a metronome to the 78, scratchy record of a Mozart Concerto. Perfect time is kept. A workout for the hands and wrist. Three movements. And when the peeler stops, the chopping starts; The slicing: Thin for the sandwiches, thick for the crudite. Vegetables that retain water; Or is this a fruit? It does have seeds. I never quite go looking for cucumbers, unless they’re pickles. I don’t much care for the taste. It’s light, I suppose refreshing; I know it’s good for me. But … there are so many other vegetables I’d prefer. Like carrots. If you take yourself out of reality for a moment, it actually is wild to think about the concept of fruits, vegetables, produce, plants; Like, you put a seed in the ground and water it and stuff grows from it that you can eat? Human engineering. Planet Earth Concepts. Facts that we take for granted. An overdue library book.

I once made zucchini bread. Well, I’ve probably made it more than once in my lifetime, but this one particular time I was making it, I was shredding the zucchini and thinking to myself how much paler and watery it was than usual. And that’s when I realized, I wasn’t shredding zucchini at all, but I had actually accidentally grabbed the cucumbers, similar in shape as they are. Little accidents, mishaps in the kitchen, make for conversational storytelling. I thankfully hadn’t gotten very far, and I don’t think the cucumber went to waste. Somebody ate it, maybe on salad or something. I don’t remember.

I don’t have patience to sit still for an hour with cucumber slices over my eyes. Does that even work? Is that like, a spa gimmick? It’s a lewk. But does it have functionality? Maybe I just don’t like my eyes shut unless I’m sleeping or meditating. Maybe I don’t like having to make sure they’re not going to fall off, or wonder what will happen if they do and I’m alone in the chair listening to a waterfall talk to a harp. Overactive mind. Electricity buzzing like a thousand distant bees. Florescence turned on in an empty office space. That deafening hum of elongated light bulbs. Tubes filled with energy. A man in a white dress shirt staring into empty space.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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