Fiction Timothy stuttered for a few moments before spitting out the first thing that came into his head. “Lettuce...?” “The lettuce is in aisle two, next to the cabbages and fresh legumes.” “Lettuce,” Timothy repeated, apparently the only word he could verbalize. “Um, yes. Have a good day, sir.” Timothy hobbled over to aisle two and stared blankly at the piles and piles of lettuce. He reached out to touch one, caressing its skin like a baby’s head. He realized how much he had missed the leafy vegetable. A whimper sneaked past his lips, and he recoiled from the lettuce. How could he let the lettuce control him like this? How could he let it hurt him? How dare it? This was obviously not his fault; it was the lettuce. He picked up the head of lettuce, cradled it like a young child and threw it across the aisle. It hit a box of pasta and, acting as a domino, toppled over five more boxes. Timothy looked away quickly, stuffed ten heads of lettuce in a bag, and ran to the self checkout counter, furiously scanning one ball of lettuce after the other. Lettuce, lettuce, lettuce—each head was ten dollars but Timothy didn’t mind—and shuffled out of the store before anyone could see him chomp into one head of lettuce on his way out. His eyes were red and his pupils were dilated. As he bit into the lettuce, his migraine subsided—he didn’t even realize that it was there until after it had disappeared. Timothy lies on the dirt in the community garden. It is raining. The rain washes the dirt away, revealing mud, and Timothy
85