rice and walnuts

“I fucking hate rice,” she

told me. “And I’m beginning

to kinda

hate you for loving it.”

“Shit,” I said, “what

did rice ever

do to you?”

She opened her purse

took out the pack of smokes

and fished one out

with her lips. “Fuck,” she said,

looking for the lighter.

“I think I still

have the pits in my knees…”

“What?”

She shrugged. “I was a little girl,

alright, and whenever I

did something that my dear grandma

considered naughty she’d

pour raw rice in a corner

of the room and make me kneel

on it and just stand like that for…

I don’t know, hours.”

“Really?”

“Really!” She blew the smoke

in my face. “To this day,

bitch still wonders

how I could steal her savings

from the pension. I didn’t

even need the money. I just hated

her guts is all. And now

I hate rice. And you.”

“Well,” I said. “I never stole

from my grandma. And to

this day I don’t hate walnuts.”

“What?”

“Yeah, that was my version

of the punishment. I knelt on

shells of walnuts just

like you with the rice. And I

don’t hate ’em.”

She blew more

smoke in

my face