Pineapple. The plastic one taken as a token of the deceased grandmother I had not been close to. That had denied the cancer that claimed her blood cells. Taken also were two mixing bowls, two chipped plates and a squirrel painting she’d done. Most embedded memory of her – telling my father I’d been picking at foods when he worried about my chubbiness, pre-puberty. Grade 4. The same and only year, two boys fought over me. It was carrots I’d taken. The pineapple hung by stoves, gathering grease and dust in kitchenette after kitchenette over my “formative years” in Montreal. Wiped with a damp J-cloth occasionally. Receiving questions, but mostly compliments, from the many singular, often one-time or short-lived guests that passed through my place. Cool girls. Cute boys. None of whom were keepers, or the marrying type.
Pineapple juice with Malibu. Vice while bartending, even if it was the drink of choice of Texan housewives with whom I had nothing else in common. Sweet tropical smoothness. Add blue curacao and vodka to make a blue lagoon. With Galiano – a take on a Harvey Wallbanger called “slow bang up against the wall” or something to that effect. My favourite drink of all drinks for a span of time.
Pineapple a mess to cut. Skin coarse and hairy. Mole-like holes. Mixed into vanilla yogurt. Or skewered and dipped in chocolate.
Pineapple lip gloss drying out on my lips as you leave me. Or I leave you and you say it’s perfectly okay. Say you wouldn’t ask me to stay. Because you’re an unmoving Pole. And they don’t swing that way.