VENDOR/FRUIT/EDUARDO

Eduardo was a bad customer—an even worse lover—but you were happy when he finally followed you home. When he broke into your house and tied you up. You weren't scared that he might do something to hurt you. No. You watched him as he watched you. Days when you wheeled around your vegetables and fruits, you noticed his unibrow at the plaza and his erection in the park. You fantasized about an encounter in an alley or in the restrooms by the playa. You know he wasn’t eager to hurt you. You knew he wanted something else. That's why you left the door open. Why you shaved the in-betweens of your legs. Why you patiently waited for the sound of his boots entering through your house. You wanted this as much as he did, and you got it. You got every single taste, lick, and flick that you wanted out of that dirty narco.

He wanted you to fulfill his shameful desires. And it became clear that every time he spat on your body, he was condemning himself. When he covered your face with a pillow, he was ashamed of himself. He couldn’t look at you. You think that maybe no one can. You're an unwanted thing outside of what your body can be used for. It’s a bargaining chip. You know to expect that. What you weren’t expecting was that Eduardo's heart would stop beating when he finally orgasmed. During his last moments, as his naked body gleamed with sweat, and as he realized that he was having a heart attack. In what should have been an honest and raw moment, was just another instance of avoidance. He refused to look into your eyes, to embrace your presence. For that, he died alone. You suspect heroin from the marks on his arms, but you aren’t certain.

Eduardo was a criminal, even if he bought off the policía or if his narco friends came sniffing around, no one would suspect that Eduardo liked taking it from you. No one wants to deal with you. Your nail polish and lashes make them look the other direction. That’s why interactions are short. Why intimacy is rare. Why this moment of being with Eduardo’s dead body is so special. That’s why you're cracking his sternum open with a garden trowel, unearthing the afternoon’s musk of sex.

“¡Ay ya yai!” You didn’t expect that much to leak out. What is a caved-in chest, if not your lover’s regret? It’s visceral. It’s crude. It's a sappy chamoy to drizzle on fruit. So pungent, an aroma so sharp. The marination of roadkill on a highway and a trash compactor juicing up garbage. Like rotting bananas caked in pus, but still hinting at a sweet center.

It tickles your nose hairs and your interest. You need to peel, dissect, and carve this into something smaller and manageable. You need to hide the evidence, not play with it. You think about plucking grapes from a vine. Unrooting carrots from soil. Harvesting aloe vera. You grab a mallet and mental stakes. You plunge and hammer into Eduardo. Breaking his spine, his cervical bones, his oh so sweet neck. You hammer his head away from his body. It’s a floppy and deflated soccer ball. You do the same to his arms, legs, and find the rest of the torso to be difficult. You could sever the muscles first, getting the fibrous mesh out of the way. But where the hell are you going to put this mess?

You think about how Eduardo never got to try the mangonadas, the lemony coco shavings, or the spice covered gummies you made. In the end, you guess Eduardo only really wanted your pepino.

You go to your backyard garden/livelihood/nursery/inherited land. You can bury the bigger parts of him in planters. You could start growing blue agaves again. Maybe some poincianas. Your last batch of lettuce rotted on you. You would cleanse the soil with an iron-rich manure. You could save on the water bill by squeezing Eduardo out like a sponge. Edge whatever's left of him off until there’s nothing more his body can give.

You think about restaurant regulations; how they allow a certain level of filth in the food. An acceptable amount of flies, insects, and the servers’ sneezes. Food markets have discounts on meat right before it goes bad. You remember that the taco vendor once coordinated with the local animal shelter when he fulfilled a big order for a venue. Not to mention the granizados made from stagnant street water and the churros fried in dark cooking oil. You should give yourself more credit. You're not like those other people—you’re not like anyone.

You stuff planters and beds of flowering melon with evidence. The narcos will never know. You clean the bedroom, mopping up blood. You throw the blankets, sheets, and pillows into a freshly dug grave. A grave without a body, the fabric can act as a weed block. You pack the dirt tight and firm. You notice your fingernails, all the dirt that’s trapped. You don’t mind. You like getting down and dirty. It’s expected out of a freak like you.

You put all of his clothes into a bag and keep it under your bed. On nights when time can’t pass fast enough, when there’s no liquor in the house, when there isn’t a sweet little thing turning tricks on the corner, you’ll steal a whiff of his clothes, and everything will return like a lost memory.

It’s not a trophy
It’s a memento
a husk of corn
that remains.

You sit in a lawn chair, watching the fruits of your labor sprout. Your sloppy seconds are getting a second life. You didn’t kill him, but you feel like you might have. Your passion, appearance, and maybe earrings induced a heart attack. You're not supposed to be a killer. You're a grower. Just watch the garden.

To accept something
is to nourish it.
Stems flower,
unfurling open.

The playa was dead today; tourists are gone for the season, and the locals are back on their work schedules. You noticed some men who seemed to be in the same business as Eduardo. You called it a day and left early just in case. How long will they look for him? It’s been weeks. Eduardo's fruits must surely be ready to pick.

You check on your garden/livelihood/nursery/inherited land. You grab a plum and inspect it. It’s coming along nicely. It’s not bad, its juice is sweet with a bitter aftertaste. You sample some grapes and grapefruit, none of it spoiled or mutated. You feel relieved. Everything is normal. His body didn’t poison anything. You thank the coastal soil for being so rich.

You praise his body
for being so sustaining.
Your sin, a distant nutrient,
sucked up by roots.

You start off the day with a smell of Eduardo’s clothes. It gives you the energy to roll your cart up the road and into the plaza. The plaza is guzzling with traffic. Teens are throwing pesos into the fountain. Upper class women with too much time and money are parading bags with expensive contents. The city bum is sleeping on the bench. Come 2 o'clock he’ll wake and ask all the vendors/shop-owners/laborers for some extra cash. The sun is dry and oppressive—a life-giving source that you come to resent.

You want to prepare your workstation, sharpen your knives, and dice your fruits and veggies for the day. You know it’s going to taste great, just prepare it. 90% of blood is water, of course there wouldn’t be a difference. You want to sample a piece of mango, but men who reek of drug trade approach you.

“Can I help you?” The same words you told Eduardo when you saw him in your house. Only it was more erotic then. It’s a disguise now.

“Have you seen this man?” One of the men shows you a photo of Eduardo. No one in the group makes eye contact with you, they avoid it like debris in the road.

“No I haven’t.” You swallow hard.

“Are you sure?” The man looks at you, but not quite your eyes, only close enough to pretend you're not repulsive to look at. A skateboarder scrapes his knee as the man presses forward with his questions. You see his gun bulging through his pants. You nervously play with your pink bracelets. You forgot what he said.

“Would you like to try?” You distract with mango. You try to give Eduardo back, your grin a bit too big. Your face wrinkles up and your cheeks are pulsing bright. You don’t resemble anything suspicious, just a flustered mess who might be mistaken for a tranny. You're an undesirable.

The man looks like he wants to throw up. He looks like you just visually assaulted him. You hear a whisper of someone calling you fruity. He and the rest of them leave. You fix your makeup as the cortisol leaves your body. Your lashes are cute and your eye shadow makes you hot, yet you feel like none of these things. You're ugly. You're worthless. You’re deranged and no one will want you. Maybe your body, and only that. That’s not a surprise. It’s a confession.

Everyone likes their produce fresh. Luscious hair just as much as succulent pears. Everyone wants their bellies or themselves to be filled. No one cares about how it gets to that point. No one wants to hurt their eyes by looking at you, nor their minds with how something—someone gets to be. It’s a hard confrontation. Ripe with disinformation and seasoned with resentment. You watch the narcos move around the plaza, slowly fading out of view. You can’t muster a smile. You're mute and blank. An empty crate. Hollow.

You fill your mouth with a bumpy fresa. The fresa pops like a balloon and blood drips out of your mouth and all over your dress. You smear clots off your chin and spit on your hand like you're preparing for a hand job. The fruit isn’t fruit, it’s a hybrid. A cross-dressing vessel of seeds and veins. You bite into a carrot and more blood rushes out like an opened artery. You squeeze a kiwi and it cracks like bones. You try to dice a watermelon, but it turns into a crime scene. You swear that the cantaloupe is made of tissue, it shouldn't be that tough to cut. What the hell happened to your product? You stab, bite, cut, tear, and rip into everything. Mists of red. Squirts of syrup. Landmines being triggered. It erupts all over your face/cart/lower class status.

Everyone in the plaza is wrapped in their own world. It’s unclear if they notice you, the crazy vendor, butchering produce, and bathing yourself in a psychotic blood bath. To hell with them! You need to focus on your work, and the way you grip the knives. Because no one will witness you for you—you must witness for yourself—so continue murdering what should already be dead, until all you see is red!