Avocado

The avocado sits on the wooden cutting board, ripe and ready to be eaten. I could spoon Dijon mustard onto it, a little salt and lemon and eat it up, standing there in my quiet kitchen, alone.

We had breakfast that morning at your favourite diner, where you ordered the same as me: runny eggs over salmon and chewy toast. I reached for your hand under the table and gave it a quick squeeze, while you laughed with your flatmate. The waitress brought us a slice of avocado on the side, and you insisted I take a bite off your fork.

That night, I couldn't sleep; I was in so much pain. You lay next to me, holding me, shushing me, until you fell asleep. I watched you quietly, the pain tearing my stomach apart. You were so beautiful when you slept, the only time I could look at you without making you nervous. I wasn't allowed to love you visibly, that was part of our silent deal. In the dark, under the table, in our room, you loved me without words.

I sat there, in pain, in need of a doctor, saying nothing, because I knew you would leave soon, and I'd be alone once again. You loved me generously, quietly, as long as I didn't put a name to it, or ask for anything more than now. You were impossible to love, and I loved you completely.

The avocado waits for me to split it open, spoon its smooth texture into my mouth. I remember the lemon, the pain, you holding me till you slept, the sun shining as we walked arm in arm back home.
So I ate a bowl of tomatoes instead.