This Is Not A Tomato

Wow, he said. That’s red, isn’t it?

She grinned and said, I know.

Hypochondriac On The Edge

Alcohol makes my limbs swell up to twice their size and causes my face to turn as red as a baboon’s backside. Heroin’s so expensive these days, they say. And god only knows what they put into coke. You could be snorting washing powder for all you know. I would turn to prostitution but I’m allergic to other people’s sweat. Just a millisecond’s contact is enough to make me break out in hives. I can’t stand the sight of blood –I’m apt to faint– so razor blades are out. And I find sleeping pills just a little bit too risky: too many and I may throw them up, damaging my fragile throat; too few and I could wind up in the hospital, having to have my stomach pumped. I’ve never tried it but I’m sure there would be complications. So that left me with platform one of the nearest subway station. I turned up fully prepared at a quarter to eight, peak hour, dressed to blend in with the suits and trenches. I felt exhilarated, or I would have done if my heart condition allowed it. Can’t be too careful, you know. Keep stress and excitement to a minimum. But there were a number of unforeseeable circumstances: in my haste I forgot to bring money for a ticket so I had to beg my way inside, quarter by quarter, losing precious time. Then the crowds jostled me along to platform two instead of one. Unfamiliar turf. They stood in rows, giving me no reason to loiter by myself at the end of the platform. I figured I’d queue with the rest of them, then make a dash for it as the train approached. But that wasn’t counting my troublesome hip –it’s been suggested I may need a replacement by the age of sixty– which clicked out of its socket after only two big strides. People turned around and eyed me disapprovingly. They thought I was trying to jump the queue, I realised suddenly. Faced with unexpected amounts of such negative attention, I could do nothing but apologise profusely and let everyone board. My mother raised me right. I’ll just jump as it departs, I thought. I sidled over to the edge but, my oh my, how could I have missed the grime down there? It was unbelievable, not at all like platform one. Close contact was bound to cause the mumps or rubella, the plague even. Just imagine that, I thought, shaking my head. And I did imagine it, in vivid detail, shuddering all the way home.

Privacy

What’s it to you that I like my sheets either red or white, but never a combination of the two? I don’t understand why you want to know when I’ll be between them either. Nor am I sure about the validity of your need to be informed of how I like my eggs for breakfast. I smile to myself and stretch diagonally across the bed –red, maybe white– at an unspecified time of day or night, and contemplate fresh fruit and cereal.

Crisis

Could you do me a favour and drop the scissors on my foot? Aim for the little toe if you possibly can. The smaller the surface, the more vivid the flash of pain. Don’t throw it but gently drop it, and try to steer its fall. I realize that this may be a strange request. It’s just that I need some pain to gauge the extent of my current crisis. Because I could be overreacting. I suspect I’m prone to that. But on a scale from one to five, I think this is a seven. Or a nine on a scale from minus twenty to two point five. But I’m not completely sure. And before I alert the authorities, I really need to know whether or not I have just cause. So, be a darling, the scissors are over there.

The Situation With My Ears

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sleeping; those painkillers really knocked me out. I only woke up because my ear hurt. The ear I was sleeping on, you understand. Actually, this happens to me a lot. Do I have particularly sensitive ears, I wonder, or is it the hardness of my pillow? Could be –at least in this case– because I was sleeping on the couch. I’m not a decorative cushions sort of girl, so the pillow I placed (crushed?) my ear against really is rather hard. Oh well. I roll over onto my back and realize vaguely that I’m wriggling my toes. When I lift my head I see the cat’s about to pounce. Now why did I think of that even in such a drowsy state? I guess I know my cat. I turn over once again, onto my other side. I figure I’ll sleep some more. I must have about half an hour before my other ear starts to hurt.