It belonged to the English—this cuke that had spent a month in the back of my fridge, slowly each day becoming a more liquid version of itself...
The last time it snowed this hard, I set a cucumber out on the cutting board.
I had found the sluicey salad fruit wrapped in its plastic sleeve.
It belonged to the English—this cuke that had spent a month in the back of my fridge, slowly each day becoming a more liquid version of itself,
which I sliced and layered into a sandwich,
which made me sick,
on a cold, snowy day,
such as this.
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