I started using the title, "Salivate" quite awhile ago, I thought this was an interesting opening to one of those random things I've never finished.
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It was a moment of clarity for me. Watching my father destroy that plate of chocolate
dipped strawberries my mother had just finished arranging on the dining-room table. She
had turned off the living-room lights and moved a lamp near the food so it could cast a
dull, but warm glow over the dessert. I remember looking at the crystal dish with the
strawberries positioned side-by-side, forming a circle... and the chocolate sauce looping all
around the rose etchings in the design, weaving in and out. It reminded me of a trail that a
pair of ice-skaters might leave on a frozen lake.
She even sprayed the strawberries with water, giving them that fresh, mouth watering
shine.
It wasn't for the guests to eat, I realize that now. This was her masterpiece. Her life's
work.
Dad walked in and grabbed a strawberry, popped one in his mouth. He gave a sound of
approval and my mom let out a groan like she had been kicked in the stomach.
"What the hell is the matter with you," he asked, reaching for another.
"Those are for the guests," she whined.
He frowned and popped in another strawberry.
"What, I can't eat my own food now?"
Her hands were mashed against her face and the moaning grew louder.
"They're good," he added. "You should make these more."
"I'll never make it again."
He laughed with a mouthful.
"What are you talking about?"
Mom stepped forward and grabbed the plate off the table while Dad was still reaching for
more.
"What are you doing," he demanded.
"I'm throwing them out," she muttered and marched back to the kitchen.
"What are you nuts, bring them back- I thought you wanted to leave them out for
company."
"You ruined it." Her voice was small from the kitchen.
Something about that statement infuriated my father. He stormed into the kitchen and a
moment later there was a sharp sound, followed by a tinkle.
"See," he barked, "Now THAT'S RUINED- happy now? What do you have for a main
course, maybe I can ruin that too before anyone else can have a taste."
"You ruined it...you ruined it."
She just kept saying that. Even after he slapped her twice. I almost laughed when I heard
it. It was too funny. He was slapping her over strawberries. She was shattered from the
moment he laid a finger on that plate. Like he had just taken a crayon and drew a
smiley-face over her oil-painting.
"You ruined it...you ruined it," she babbled, even after he was gone. Standing alone in the
kitchen, staring down at the cold tiles that were now smeared with a mish-mash of
squished up strawberries and broken glass.
My mother was insane.
