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Each clop of the knife hitting the cutting board brings the tangy-sweet aroma of strawberry to my senses. Memories of the soft flesh in my mouth and the pink juice running over my lips, causes my taste buds to water as I watch William’s hands glide over the cutting board, patiently shaping the slices into bite sized chunks. He holds the leafy little caps in a firm grip that never waivers or slips, keeping the lopsided little fruits in line as he slices, dices, and puts them into a little blue bowl.
“Are you ready love?” he asks, not realizing that the question has two answers. Yes I’m ready to have dessert. No, I’m not ready to die.
As he gently sits down on the edge of my hospital bed, being careful not to tug on the iv tube biting into my arm, I look into his grey-green eyes and wonder how I got so lucky. Guys like Will weren’t supposed to be real, or at least I’d convinced myself of that somewhere along the way. But here he is, dropping out of school, losing his scholarship to be with me. His nose wrinkles with impatience, as he waits on my answer, uncomfortable with my silence. Looking at him waiting on me, makes my weak heart swell with love for him, even as my body pays the price for the exertion. A cough from my drowning lungs shakes me from the inside out. My muscles tighten under stress and my hands clench in pain. I would claw my own throat out if I could, but all I can do is tremble; that is, until larger hands that smell of tangy-sweet cover my own and drive back the searing pain.
When my clenched eyes finally open the first thing I see are his eyes hovering over mine. He dabs the blood from my mouth with a tissue and doesn’t say a word. Stupid heart, so big it keeps me alive and kills me at the same time. My mood is turning bitter, like the metallic taste of blood that lingers in my mouth. I’m helpless against the white hot anger that flares up inside of me; anger at God, at life, at the darn strawberries sitting innocently in the bowl.
“Why did you have to choose strawberries?” I ask a little too loudly to be polite.
He stares at me a moment before answering with a question, “I thought you loved strawberries?” The confusion on his face makes I hadn’t asked, but I’m too angry to stop.
“The juice is sticky and gets everywhere, the seeds stick in your teeth, and they’re almost always bruised. Worst of all you can’t keep them for longer than a few days. Who would want a fruit that dies so quickly, that…” I realize that I’m not talking about fruit anymore, that the tears running down my face aren’t for the stupid strawberries, but for me, “Why would you want a strawberry!?!”
I wait for it, for the moment I realize I've been waiting for when I first realized I’d fallen in love with him. This is when he leaves me. This is how I can say goodbye. I can make him hate me, so that I don’t hate myself for leaving. My hands clench hospital sheets as my vision blurs, his image melting with my tears. Dammit, just say something Will.
The corners of his mouth twitch, but the rest of his face stays emotionless. “Well I don’t know, maybe it’s because even if all I have is a few months left with that very silly strawberry, I would rather be with her than any other fruit in the world; even when she berates me for my choice in fruit. Besides,” he says with a straight face as he caresses away my tears, “Ain’t nothing like a strawberry…”
God, I love this man.
“Now hurry up and help me eat these or I’m finding a different use for this can of whipped cream,” he says wiggling his eye brows suggestively and smirking.
God, how I love this stupid man..