Avocado

And I kind of hate her now, probably due to the innumerable cold shoulders thrust into my advances, but then she stifles a quiet laugh and instantly I’ve forgotten and forgiven any trespasses and when she bites her lower lip and scrunches her nose I melt a little, content with the scene I’m seeing in my head of the two of us hand in hand exploring a long, bright grocery aisle, a small black basket in my free hand and an avocado in hers as she meticulous inspects the green orb, but by the time she’s done the real her, the one I hated moments ago, is already out the door, down the hallway and off into a world unknown and untouched by even my imagination, and I guess that's fine, for I am much more enamored by the infinite possibilities of the her that is still holding a ripe avocado than the her that just left.