It rested near the very top of the mountain. Its darkened, rough skin gleamed and caught the light in what could be considered an appealing manner. Now and then it would be picked up, poked and prodded but it never minded for the hands were always gentle, never wishing to bruise the delicate insides.

It knew its lifespan was relatively short and it was even aware that it’s life would most likely end with brute force. But that was its purpose. To serve (and be served.) And it was happy to do so.

Whenever it was placed back on the mountain, it felt a small twinge of embarrassment. Was it not ready? Did its shape displease? What if… horror of horrors… it was past its prime already? What if it was doomed to rot? These fears subsided, however, when a soft pair of hands picked it up, examined it, and smiled.

“It’s perfect,” it heard a voice say. “The guacamole will be delicious.”

Excellent! it thought, and looked forward to cozying up to the cilantro.