It was so terrible when I asked that nice guy with the Bluetooth who I always see heating up his lunch in the kitchenette, I asked him if there were any extra spoons around. I wanted to eat this avocado half I had in a baggie that I was kind of hiding behind the coffee maker while I asked, because it was kinda gross, but you know, so delicious.
And, as I’m asking, this cute guy—cute like he’s young and fit, and seeing him in a tie and collar doesn’t make my neck itch (he wears it well)—and of course he’s suave, all “I have a spoon. Let me get it.”
“No-no, you don’t have to… It’s not a big—“
But: “It’s right around the corner,” and now he’s already backtracking out of the kitchenette and I’m stuck hiding the baggie and the other guy has some in-conclusion-stranger-sympathy “weird-because-in-a-kitchen-you’d-expect…” remark that is described with so many hyphens, obviously, and I’m over-thinking it, but then you know, that is also his Exit Remark and I’m left in the room alone and where is this other guy? I thought he said “right around the corner.” Should I have followed him so I would know where to give the spoon back? And by not knowing his name or desk, I’m not setting up for talking to him again or, for that matter, returning the spoon, THE SPOON! It was about being decent that’s all and, what the fuck, now I’m alone in here, trying to be nonchalant but not really with anything to do. I could duck out. He comes back.
“Thank you so much do you want this back?”
OK then. (Of course he doesn’t want back a disposable fucking spoon!) (WHY would you bring an avocado for lunch and no spoon! And then not know what to do about it? Ka-rist!) And he keeps on walking right out and I take that avocado out and destroy it and throw out the bag and the skin and the spoon, all in about 7 seconds, which I hear is a significant amount of time, and I finally leave the kitchenette.
All that, all that nonsense for a shitty half of an avocado that has been out of the fridge for like four hours now and is getting sort of brown, and not even good-mushy, since I cut it still a little under-ripe. All that and we didn’t even jump into a storage closet to have sex, or talk or anything.
And my boss’ boss stops me in the hall and we are pleasant for a moment and as I say ta-ta I look back and there is that guy like ten feet away and coming and what do I do? Turn around immediately and head back to my cubicle, not looking back.
When I get there I throw my computer—monitor and all—out the window and yell. Broken glass gets everywhere. Who knows whether the guy turns out to be a killer or not, or some kinda freak, who knows? Spoon-collecting freak.
I killed him with a fork.
This has been “Avocado” by Amy Dusto.
Amy Dusto lives in Chicago and writes in the margins. She’s on Twitter sometimes: @AmyDusto
Photo Illustration by Kristof Goeser