The Mystery of Bananas by Kacy Beck
Having never liked them as a kid, he just didn’t understand bananas. His was a life completely devoid of a banana interaction. And so, it wasn’t surprising when one day he asked her, “How do they work?”
She’d often come home to soggy, black bananas he’d placed in the fridge. They’re delicate—that’s the most important thing—you have to be careful, she would tell him. When you buy them at the supermarket, you can’t put a can of pork and beans on top of them. This should just be common sense, she thought.
And then there was the time that her fingernails were wet and she’d asked him to peel one open for her. He grabbed it, held it upside down, peering at it wildly. He then nearly bent the damned thing in half—as if its proper opening was right in the middle. When she took it from him and separated the peel across the top the inside was beaten to a mushy pulp.
At night, she laid in bed at his side, sighing over and over as a blank unease tingled its way up her legs like a spider spinning a sticky, thorny web around her lungs, her heart.
“You can’t ignore everything in life you don’t like,” she whispered. She then rolled over, shoving her back in his face like an old TV sitcom.
Kacy Beck is an aspiring writer living and working in Washington DC. She has no filter or previous publications.