Elvis Presley sang about Blue Suede Shoes but I want to sing about spilled milk and overripe tomatoes. The milk is actually spilling, a white carpet inching along wooden floorboards, seeping into cracks, down among remnants of other spilled and lost things, like a sewing needle, several nails, and an old Lego piece.
An unbalanced pirouette in the middle of the kitchen smashed the milk glass. The overripe tomatoes are split in toothless smiles along the windowsill where I put them, exactly how the greengrocer with his wavy grey hair and strange accent told me. He said their sweetness evaporates inside a cold fridge: they need sun to warm their skins, skins that have now split and smell so sweet it’s taking over every molecule of the house.
I think about the greengrocer and his blunt fingers, the way he held the tomatoes like handfuls of water, the way his skin accordioned along his neck. I wanted to touch that skin, run my fingers up and down the folds, making music, and sing along with the strange accent spilling from his lips.