In the beginning, she was happy. She was happy when she became married to the man of her dreams. She loved him for his knowledge. She loved him for his enthusiasm. She loved him for his guidance. She loved him for his complexity. But most of all, she loved him because he made her happy. She could look passed his flaws. She could manage living in the country despite the city in her. She could survive the farm he moved them to. She could endure the TV with three channels none of which she liked but learned to love. She could cope with his obsession of tomatoes, the vile fruit she thought they were.

In the beginning, he was happy. He was happy that his dreams became real after he married. He loved her for her incompetence. He loved her for her dullness. He loved her for her docility. He loved her for her simplicity. But most of all, he loved her because she moved to the farm, which made him happy. He could look passed her flaws. He could manage living two hours from the city. He could survive the farm work he did and she refused to. He could endure the TV blaring all the time with her in front of it. He could cope with her hatred of tomatoes, the vile attitude she had towards them.

Being out in the country was something he longed for his whole life. He wanted to breathe the cool, country air. He wanted to touch the rich, country soil. And when all theses wishes were granted to him, he thought he was happy. But as the years droned by, he realized he thought wrong. He realized that all the things the country had to offer could satisfy him, but all the things the country lacked could exhilarate him. He breathed the cool, country air. He touched the rich, country soil. He was satisfied, but not exhilarated. True, he did have one thing the country lacked, but it did not exhilarate him. It did not quench his thirst. It did not possess a phenomenal thing, only, a mediocre one. He wanted people, but all he had was a wife.

A wife with a snaggled tooth. A wife that revealed her snaggled tooth when she laughed. A wife that watched TV every hour. A wife that laughed at the silly, childish TV program. A wife that only remained on the couch every day. A wife that he would sometimes slip a store-bought tomato into the sandwich of and watch her take a bite with her snaggled tooth. A wife that he would smile at when tomato streaked across her snaggled tooth and she would frown. A wife he would mock that would spit it out and call it a “vile fruit”.
In the country, all there was to do was farm work during the day. He picked his cucumbers with his leather garden gloves. He dug holes for his pepper plants with his wide garden shovel. He transferred mulch for his soil in his deep garden wheelbarrow. He pondered a good spot for his new tomato seeds, but could not decide the best place for them so he put them back in the inadequate place of his pocket.

In the country, all there was to do was be with the spouse during the night. He would rearrange their wooden chairs next to each other instead of across the table for dinner. He was glad to eat facing their kitchen instead of his wife. After dinner, she would go back to her couch. He would climb into bed and shut off the light instead of waiting up for his wife. He went to sleep to escape the laughter of the snaggled tooth. He went to sleep to escape the goodnight kiss of the snaggled tooth. In his dreams, he was happy. In his dreams, his tomatoes grew. In his dreams, he lived alone.
When he awoke everyday, he left his dreams behind and was met with his nightmare. His nightmare settled around him. It swallowed him whole. In his nightmare, he was miserable. In his nightmare, his tomatoes had nowhere to grow. In his nightmare, he lived with a spouse. A spouse he hated with a silent, dark and suffocating hatred. A spouse who was oblivious to this hatred, which made it more hot; so hot it seared into his tattered soul and consumed his heart in flames. He was a volcano, a fuming, feverish volcano that was bulging through the seams of dormancy. One day, he swore, it would erupt.

And one day it did. He was sitting at the table, eating dinner. She had refused to get up from the couch for the meal. The snaggled tooth kept emerging than disappearing behind sloth lips as it laughed at the silly, childish TV program. The volcano was on the edge of explosion. He told her to come eat her dinner. She said “just five more minutes”. But he had made tomato soup. He wanted to see that frown and the snaggled tooth spit it out. He told her what soup it was.

“Tomatoes” she sneered, “what a vile fruit.”

The volcano ruptured and the silent, dark, and suffocating hatred spewed from its depths. He grabbed the wooden chair next to him and rushed towards the couch. She was still chuckling when he cracked her skull with it, drowning the snaggled tooth in blood. The body slumped over like the sloth lying across a branch.

It was over. His nightmare had now become his dream. He strolled out into the cool, country air and grabbed his deep garden wheelbarrow. He brought it inside, hauled the body into it, and went back outside. He rolled it in between his cucumbers and pepper plants and he pulled his leather, garden gloves on. He began to dig the rich, country soil with his wide garden shovel. When the hole penetrated far enough into the earth and the pile of rich, country soil was far enough into the blue sky, he dropped the dead weight of his life into it. With his wide garden shovel, he filled in the hole half way. From his inadequate pocket, he took out the tomato seeds and sprinkled them on the rich, country soil. He laid to rest a wife and her favorite fruit. He buried it all.

When he called in a “Missing Person’s” report, a policemen with beady eyes came. The man asked him questions. He gave answers. The man scribbled down notes, was satisfied, and left.

The silent, dark, and suffocating anger was gone. In his life, he was happy. In his life, he was alone. And in his life, his tomatoes grew. The sun encouraged and the rain replenished until green spurts spouted from the rich, country soil. The tomatoes grew redder, lusher, and more plentiful than any plant that ever grew. He did not eat them, no he did not touch them. Instead, he picked the abundant fruit and loaded them into wooden crates. He placed the wooden crates on his front lawn and sold them to the occasional car driving by. As rapid as the growth of the tomatoes, word spread. For these were said to have been the juiciest, sweetest and tantalizing tomatoes one could have. But still he did not eat them, saving his profit. More cars drove by, stopping at his lawn to buy his tomatoes then carried on their way. The cars soon drove to his lawn just for the tomatoes. Then a caravan of vehicles awaited their prize that would come in wooden crates. Even the policeman with beady eyes and scribbled notes, came to pick up tomatoes. He would turn around after receiving them and drive by again, coming in the opposite direction with always a confused visage.


He never ran out of them as the summer months progressed. The plant kept supplying glorious fruit and from that death came the tree of life. They were the golden apples that he never failed to provide his visitors. He was exhilarated. But after awhile, his exhilaration assuaged to satisfaction which then dwindled to dissatisfaction. He looked out into his garden and no longer saw the tree of life. Instead, he saw a weed. A weed that was expanding in all directions, its vines strangling his cucumbers and roots oppressing his peppers. It was more than a weed, it was an infection, an infection that kept festering. And finally, he decided to see if it was worth the infection or if he needed a cure.

He approached the weed and plucked one of its trophies. He did not cut it, dice it, steam it, cook it, or paste it. He just chomped into the fruit of his labor. The soft skin popped in his mouth, oozing juice and seeds. It was a horrid, poisonous liquid. So repulsive he spat it out, cursed, and glanced down at the tomato. Where others tasted a sweet and lush fruit, he only tasted a vile food. And the juice, oh the juice. It wasn’t just juice, it was the reddest, bloodiest juice he had ever seen. He could feel the warm, thick blood in his mouth, drowning his tongue. The toxic blood slid down his throat like hot tar, scorching his wind pipes. He tried to gag but it slithered into his chest and dripped into his stomach, collecting in a pool of hot, poisonous blood.

It was growing in his soil, smothering his hands, conquering his body. The acid was now spouting from the fruit to his fingers, dribbling down from his hands to his elbows. It was everywhere. He ran into the house for his pair of long hedge clippers. He rushed back out and frantically snipped at the stems of the plant. It was done. The plant was dead. Within a few days, weeks maybe, the vines will shrivel up and fall away from his cucumbers and peppers. No more tomatoes. No more wooden crates.

He slept easily that night, alone in his big bed. The next morning he went to check on the plant’s dying process. But what he discovered was not what he expected to see. The stems from the plant had reattached to its roots in the rich, country soil. It was as if the clippers had never done their job. In a delirious fit of madness, he yanked at the plant but it did not move. He wrenched harder and still, the plant stood in obstinacy.

He dropped to his knees and began clawing and digging at the earth. He did not need his leather garden gloves or his wide garden shovel. The fiery panic devouring his body fueled his power. He ripped and scratched at the earth’s soft, rich skin until he came across what he was looking for. He recoiled from the site in front of him. There she was, with her torso exposed to the cool, country air. But the roots of the plant extended from—no, were solely made of her hair. Her eyes were dull white, but her lips were parted. And there was the snaggled tooth, still laughing at the silly, childish TV program.

He let out an animalistic bellow—for in his madness that was what he had become. He stumbled to his feet and blindly barreled to the front lawn, knocking over wooden crates stacked high. The vile fruit fell around him, under his feet, on his clothes, in his hair, and in his body was the bloody, thick juice. He scrambled away onto the street, arms flailing, voice shrieking and mouth foaming—the image of a man who had lost his mind.

The driver did not expect him to dart in front of his car nor did he expect to strike him. He slammed on the breaks but it was too late. The man was lodged into the air on impact. The body smashed into the windshield, blood splattering across it. A wooden crate in the passenger seat slingshot forward. The tomatoes smeared across the front glass, covering it in hot, thick juice. The same glass was the only thing separating his blood from her blood.

The driver with beady eyes climbed out of the car and rushed into the house to call for an ambulance. But as the phone rang, he glanced outside in the back and his visage was no longer confused. He hung up and called the police instead.