Cucumber

To my surprise, she turned to me, threw me a cucumber took from her package and said “Hey! Take it!” I caught it awkwardly like a fool but with happiness.
“I picked it just a moment ago, behold, the pricks are still there!” she said.
Distractedly, walking along the path with two heavy English-Chinese horticulture dictionaries, I thought about her cucumber in my hand, and about the metaphor behind it. It became an overcast evening, I stood, near the field.

“Why you are holding a cucumber?”
In the shower, unexpectedly, I can not answer the question you asked me directly, but smiled and said ambiguously “How about?”
I will never know, whether it is a proper metaphor for you, or for me. But it had already been contended when I saw the artless warmness from your homely eyes.

After swimming, you wanted to pick me up to the MRT station. I felt funny, really funny for the floriated lining of your crash helmet, laughed at myself for loving you, which had been only by a metaphor before, when I looked at it. And until this day, even though we had broken up for a long time, the sight of your back still aroused my desire, yearning for your hug and kiss.

“Goodbye!”
I didn’t look back, because there is nothing, like the cucumber I still held so long, needs to be sentimentally attached to. It, a little desiccated, never crisp again, and the pricks are all ground down, has no reason for someone to bite, only remained the thinking of holding, and the thought of the filthy, ugly metaphor about it.

I bit, found it still mouth-puckering and immature, and stunned. But I still took it, chewed it.