Guacamole

Guacamole


The avocado fleshed party favourite sat there in a bowl, looking somewhat perplexed. Maybe it was because of the way all those greedy fingers had arranged its expression, or the leftover specs of tortilla chips that penetrated the surface of its skin.
Many people had come over to the bowl during the afternoon, chatting various kinds of nonsense while plunging their chips or bread into the guacamole, just before they waltzed over to the beer fridge to get their fix of party juice. That’s when the guacamole was forgotten – just used and abused like some washed up old prostitute.

It would have been completely alone, except for one woman; a pale and jittery thirty something who kept a keen eye on its hulk-like flesh, while asking party goes to give their honest opinion on the guacamole. The feedback was exemplary, and every time she got a testimonial about her culinary efforts, a look of glee lit up her face, but it was always followed by one of unmistakable anguish.

“Damn him,” she muttered as the guacamole’s ears pricked up, “he hasn’t even tried it. He’s eaten everything else except you guac, the only thing I brought to the party.”
She nearly folded like a cheap deck chair in the wind, but as tears bulged beneath her eyelids, she found a certain kind strength.

Before it had time to blink, the guacamole was picked up by her shaking hand, couriered across the lounge at a crazy pace, and just before its soft flesh splattered across a man’s face and it met its demise, it heard the words “WHY WON’T YOU MARRY ME!?”