Tomato

 
Simon Linington, Tomato, 2018 | Courtesy of the artist

Simon Linington, Tomato, 2018 | Courtesy of the artist

 

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car and she is driving. The road in front of us is long and straight and I can’t really place it, as if it is not the road I expected to see.

Gripping the steering wheel with her right hand she holds out a tomato with the left. “Would you like a tomato?” she said.

“No thank you, I don’t feel like a tomato,” I said.

I can’t stop thinking about a dream. I dreamt I was a clothes hanger, or at least I looked like a clothes hanger. I was two arms and a leg joined by an elbow and a foot - where I thought my head should be was a knee wrapped in a bandage.

“Do you remember when we were in Mumbai?” she said. “That woman, she stopped you whilst we were crossing the road. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” I said.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t say anything because I think she was right.”

She bites down on her bottom lip and her eyes move up inside her head. “That’s what I thought, she was right wasn’t she?”

I can’t stop thinking about the clothes hanger me. I’m not hooked over something and neither am I holding onto anything.

“Can I have the tomato now?” I said.

“You want the tomato?” she said.

“Yes, I feel like a tomato.”

She hands me the tomato. I take a bite, close my eyes and think about why a clothes hanger needs to wear a bandage.

The car was found a few hundred yards down the road, it had hit a pothole and rolled over onto its side. No bodies were ever recovered. Some say it was stolen by teenagers who were lucky to escape the crash, but most don’t say anything at all.

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