Veggie Love - Anne Wright

I like to watch. I work in the produce section of the grocery store and you would be amazed at the number of people, old ladies included, who come in just to handle the vegetables. Squeeze the cukes, Fondle the melons. Pinch the grapes. Sniff the tomatoes.

Always having been kind of psychic, sometimes I can listen in on their thoughts. If I focus above the soft moans and groans they’re emitting in what they think nobody can hear, I can make out the words.

This one little lady, who is always dressed all in black from her head scarf knotted under her chin, right down to her nun shoes, is one who gets really excited. When she walks in through the automatic doors she always heads for the cucumbers and zucchinis. If I get real quiet in my mind I can hear what she says. “Oh George.” She runs her hands across the box of green cucumbers.

This time of the year they are especially fresh and firm. She will pick one out and place it across her outstretched palm. She pinches it between her thumb and index fingers, starting at the stem and working her way to the end, then cups her whole hand around it and squeezes. “George, you were the only one I loved,” she whispers in her mind.