My Story: Covid Breakfast

A Story About Breakfast…

My cold feet shuffle across the laminate floor to the kitchen island my sweat built years ago. It anchors everything, even the pile of bananas next to the onions in a wire and wicker basket. Today it anchors me.

It’s been twelve days. Twelve! Will anything taste different this morning? Here’s hoping… 

I grab the best-looking of the bunch, a little more green-yellow than I like, but it’s what I’ve got. I rip it away from the rest with all the fibrous resistance.

The top handle “pops” as the fibers rip and shred under the pressure. I slowly pull down the side, and it squeaks a little as I pull. I examine the bright-white flesh beneath. Fat, fuzzy threads begin to separate with each tug of the peel. One, two, three.

Every other banana has tasted the same for twelve days. Twelve! Maybe today my sense of taste will be normal. Please! Today?

Leaning against the island’s heavy, gray, butcher block top, I bite the tip passive-aggressively. My teeth feel the firm banana’s squeaky resistance. 

I’ll feel the odd furriness after this one. Why can't I love brown-spotted, soft, sweet bananas Too soft. The extremes of fruit readiness aren’t better, I reason.

The metallic taste sets in. Again. 

Bites. I just have to endure several more bites.

Sharing With You…

I thought you might enjoy reading a short story I wrote for an online class.

I keep hearing the same thing from others: that’s exactly what it was like! Maybe it was for some. Can you relate?

What would you write if you were given the topic of “breakfast” and a short time to write?

~Jennifer