Wash your fruits

The fruits rot on the table, a still life of my neglect. It's a familiar scene between me and my unwashed teacups. But today, I wash the fruits. It is one of those days when exhaustion outweighs hunger, when the thought of speaking to the delivery man feels like an unbearable intimacy.

I come out of my room, a ghost in my own home, searching for any leftover that I might have forgotten about. Only two bananas and an apple remain in the glass bowl my mother gave me hoping that I might care for myself as much as I do for the aesthetics of this empty house. She sends me curry in ice cream tubs, fruits in shopping bags. Love in disposable containers.

I take the apple to the kitchen, turn the faucet. Nothing. I twist harder, my fingers white with urgency. There is no water. I must have forgotten to fill the tank again.

I am terrible at this, I whisper to no one.

Back at the dining table, I sink into one of the eight chairs, too many for a woman who eats alone. The apple can't be that dirty. I rub it against my sleeve, a pathetic baptism. The first bite is crisp, then. Iron. Blood. There is blood. Whose? Mine? The apple's? My mother's?

I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth.

How do I stop the disgust? The punishment of nature for suspension. For all the things I have left undone, unloved, uneaten? The very act of preservation feels like betrayal.

And suddenly the room exhales winter. The floors are coated in dust, the teacups cradle curdled milk at their bottoms. And then I see her.

My mother stands in the doorway, her mouth sewn shut with coarse black thread. In her hands, a new bowl of fruit, fresh, glistening, perfect. She places it on the table. The threads in her mouth loosen, drip honey.

"You let everything spoil," she hums, though her lips never part.

The apple in my hand pulses, a second heartbeat. I press it to my ear. I hear it's weeping.

Ohona Anjum writes, rhymes, and studies English literature.