In the Fridge

It was hot outside, and mowing the lawn had been an exercise in torture. As the sun beat down, I felt my skin grow sticky, my clothes clinging to my back and legs as I moved back and forth across the grass.

The afternoon rode on into evening, and my outdoor work came to an end. I found myself thirstier than I’d been in ages. I wiped my sweaty brow with the green-stained edge of a sleeve and hauled the mower up to the shed, making a beeline towards my back door.

I peeled off my damp clothes and wrapped myself in a light bathrobe, making my way to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and rummaged around for a bottle of water. The cranked A/C wasn’t doing enough to cool me down. I had to have a drink of something frosty.

I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, beneath a head of wilted lettuce. A finger, creeping out from where I’d hidden it. It was part of the left hand of someone I’d once considered a friend, and had obviously gone bad.

I needed to find a better place to hide my leftovers.

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