Chelsey Shannon—ABCD prompt

Harriet

It’s terrible being a tomato—that is, it’s terrible being a sliced up, picked tomato when one once was a live tomato on the vine, and it was infinitely worse to be a picked tomato in a salad, moments away from being consumed, yet still conscious.
Harriet had heard many stories, from the vine to the basket to the cargo hold, about what it was like to be eaten, about how you were lucky if you were eaten by a pretty human, because it didn’t hurt as much; how you were more unfortunate if the human was unattractive; how you were downright unlucky if you were eaten by an animal.

Lying against a silent, resigned bed of lettuce from an iceberg head named Jill, Harriet knew she was lucky. The face hovering above her was quite lovely. But, Harriet couldn’t help but notice, despite the awful sensation in her body of having been sliced by a serrated knife and arranged artistically on top of Jill’s lettuce, the face was also distressed.

“Angelique,” said a kind voice, also at the table, though Harriet couldn’t see the speaker. “If you want to make sure he’s okay, just call him. He gave you his number. That’s what it’s for.”

Ah, thought Harriet.

“Look, Beatrice,” said another voice, a bit sterner. “She shouldn’t have to call him. If the ass cared, he would have called by now. Sorry, hon,” the voice continued, softer now. “But I think you just should let this one go.”

The face above Harriet looked pained. “But he said he loved me…”

A third, patient-sounding voice chimed in. “Okay, how about a compromise? Why doesn’t Angelique just email him?”

“Claire,” said the first voice, “it’s been two weeks since he went back to America. I think it’s appropriate to call. Angelique’s worried. What if he didn’t get home alright?”

“What does it matter?” asked the stern voice. “It was just a fling.”

“Jesus, Dominique,” said Beatrice. “Obviously it means a little more to Angelique than just that. Look at how upset she is.”

Harriet gazed up at the woman—Angelique. Her eyes had filled with tears.

“American tourists are all the same,” said Claire, not unkindly. “Come to France all ready for some fun, forget you when they return to their real lives. I’m sorry, Angelique. That’s just what usually happens.”

That’s when Harriet heard the secret, a murmur so quietly slipped between Angelique’s lips that only Harriet could heard it. “I’m pregnant…”

At that moment, the bistro door flew open. Harriet couldn’t see who had entered, but the woman at the table tittered. In the distance, Harriet heard a voice in heavily accented, incorrect French state, “Jay suise desoley.”

The woman called Dominique cackled and ridiculed the man’s poor French, imitating his lisp and making a snide comment about Americans. None of the other woman laughed, though for all Harriet knew, they might have smiled.

The tourist must have ordered and sat down, for the conversation turned back to Angelique and her lost American. Harriet was beginning to grow bored with it—no conclusion seemed to be being reached—when suddenly there was an odd choking sound from a neighboring table. Angelique bolted from her seat suddenly.

“Oh my god, Angelique!” Harriet heard Claire intone in awe as, suddenly, she felt herself being picked up, raised from the safe bed of lettuce. No!

She was hovering outside the mouth of a striking brunette.

“Thank god she got up,” said the brunette, in the voice Harriet identified as Dominique’s. “I’ve been eyeing this tomato the whole time.”

And as Harriet sailed toward Dominique’s pearly whites and the bistro erupted into applause as, presumably, Angelique had saved someone’s life, as was declared by the lisping American in poor French, Harriet’s last thought was, “I wonder what Angelique will name the baby?”

Fin