She watched him as he stood there concentrating on peeling a plum with the sharpest part of the blade, closest to the handle. The late afternoon sun glowed through the unraveling length of the red-purple skin. Juice dripped on the stainless steel counter. She didn’t remember ever seeing him peel a plum that way before and wondered when or where he’d learned it. And his blue shirt? That was new too. But she’d just woken up from a sweaty nap and so knew better than to try and speak. Her thoughts were murky, her tongue thick and words difficult to form. Fruit and clothing would have to wait. She felt an unquenchable thirst, drank directly from the kitchen faucet and splashed cold water on her face.
He had renovated their kitchen while she was away on her sabbatical. That’s what they called it anyway. When she came home there were custom kitchen cabinets, a new refrigerator, dishwasher and a six burner stove - the kind that looks commercial but really isn’t. When they had talked over those many months their conversations were a teetering kind of emotional high wire act about things like the pros and cons of gas versus electric stoves and when, if at all, she thought she might be coming back.
So he’d made most of the remodeling decisions right down to what kind of doorknobs and light switches to install because that’s what he had to do. She couldn’t or wouldn’t summon the energy or the interest for minutiae like green-glass stained-nickel cabinet pulls. Those kind of details made her teeth itch. There was no room inside of her for details like that. And if he wanted walnut hardwood flooring even though she felt they were extravagant and too showy, he can have them she figured, if it makes him happy.
That afternoon she felt like an interloper, an imposter in this new kitchen that he built for the both of them. He’d renovated over of the remnants of a marriage and a life that had fallen away and nearly disintegrated. She looked around for clues, any traces or odds + ends left to reassure her that she did belong there, if she wanted to.
The drawers slid open and closed with ease. She found her favorite vegetable peeler, dough scraper, zester, chopsticks. Her best knife, the one with a broken tip was displayed front and center on the magnetic strip by the cutting boards and it was even sharp. Kitchen linens were all folded and stored next to the sink. Her spice drawer had been reorganized and labeled. He’d put in additional outlets on the island for appliances like the food processor and slow cooker. It was all very clean and uncluttered. Even the sponges were new. Everything had a place and it seemed like everything was in it, except for the corkscrew which she couldn’t find. He watched quietly as she opened a bottle of wine with a butter knife and a knotted piece of kitchen string.
She poured two glasses of red and he offered her a bite of the naked plum. She took it even though it looked like some kind of organ dripping blood but didn’t say anything. Without the skin the fruit tasted pure and uninterrupted. He finally spoke and said, “I like your hair short like that.” and she said, “You look nice in your new blue shirt.”
‘The Plum’ was broadcast on June 23rd, 2004 out of WCAI as part of my weekly radio essay series, A Cook’s Notebook. Those audios can be found on the PRX Exchange. This is a slightly edited version from the original script. Thanks for reading.