Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Red Tomato Rage

His face showed flush amplified by the streak of ketchup across his cheek. She chuckled as she took a bite of the wicked weapon. He had been slapped with plenty of gloves, many belts, and the occasional haddock, but never with a french fry. She chewed defiantly in the face of his glare. The smell of the ketchup rose to his nose. He slowly wiped it away without breaking his stare. She broke first and turned to chat up some other sap. He glanced to his hand smeared red. Some tomato gave its life for this, he thought.

He looked back to her. Red permeated the air between them. Not anger, he thought, not rage; he knew those well. This dug down some deep new place. He could always slap her back with one of her own french fries, a slab of his steak, or a good handful of mustard. Insufficient options every one: he needed more.

He could drench her in sauces of all colors: reds, browns, yellows, the green stuff with the funny name. She would be sopped head to toe in savories and sweets. Her clothes stained all colors of the rainbow. Her hair dyed ten tones of gourmet accoutrements. Her eyes, her ears, her nose, her mouth all filled full with ketchup, salsa, mustard, hot sauce, syrup. He could empty the table of its complimentary condiments in the name of vengeance and leave her a sopping, sobbing mess.

He could do all that, but he wouldn't. In angry days vengeance was swift. This time, however, all he could do was look. She slapped his face with a french fry and paralyzed him. She could glow tomato red and grow potatoes from her head and he would only sit and stare. She made me useless, he thought, pointless and useless.

She looked back at him and recognized his immobility. Neither said a word. She arched her brow. He swore he saw her float for a second, just a second. She looked back to her plate of french fries and half-eaten chicken club. He took up his bill and walked to the register. He paid, left, and never ate french fries again.

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