by Andrea Herbst                                                                      

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            She is walking, alone, and she is thinking of tomatoes.

            
            The wind is blowing from her side, skimming over the tops of the piles of snow, picking up comrades to whip against her face. Her hair is blowing, twisting, but she doesn’t care. Hats make her head itch.

            
            She is thinking about how there are always too many tomatoes. Everyone seems to grow them, and everyone tries to give them away, but no one ever wants them.

            
            She is carrying tea. It is warm in its paper cup. She wishes it were in a nice teacup, like she sees in movies with old British tea parties. One lump or two? She thinks to herself. She smiles. Her bag weighs heavily on her other arm, pulling her sideways as she walks.

            
            She is thinking about tomatoes, and how her son has so many in his garden every year. She is the only one who will take them. Her sister used to grow cherry tomatoes. Her neighbor, the one with the German accent and the little dog, gives her tomatoes too. And the Farmer’s Market, that each year is held just a block from her house, she buys tomatoes there. Big ones, small ones, red and orange, she buys them. Her life is full of tomatoes. She eats them all.

            
            A boy passes her. He crashes into her, making her tea splash over her hand. He is speaking on his cell phone and doesn’t seem to notice her. It is okay, though, because now her hand is warmer. It is so very cold out.

            
            She is thinking about her son, who is married to a woman who made him move away. She is thinking of her sister, her face trapped in its emotionless stare. She is thinking of her parents, buried in the cemetery next to the lake. Her husband is visiting them. She wishes he wasn’t.

            
            She is walking, alone, even though she is surrounded by people who pass her by. She is hoping that one of them will say hi, but they all seem too eager to get out of the snow. The snow is flat, piled up on both sides of her. The sidewalk under her feet is iced with dirty brown slush, the kind that freezes into jagged sheets. She is slowly shuffling, trying not to slip, her head down to buffet against the wind. Her hands are cold, but she doesn’t wear mittens or gloves. She doesn’t like how they inhibit her fingers.

            
            She is thinking about the tomatoes this summer, about how they will taste. Will they be vine tomatoes? Cherry tomatoes? She doesn’t know. Still, she is sure there will be too many of them, and she will never have to grow her own, because everyone else will always give them to her. She usually has too many for one person, so her husband used to help her eat them. Her father used to help her mother eat all the tomatoes they had, too. Now she eats them all.

            
            She is walking, alone, and she is wondering, who will eat all the tomatoes when she is gone?

            
            The snow flakes are gently falling, placing themselves upon her head with care. The dusk is growing deeper, and the streetlights strain to flicker on. They illuminate their small world with yellow light, creating flakes of gold where snow once was. She stops, mesmerized.

            
            She is wondering why her son’s wife thinks she is too boring, too plain, too old-fashioned. She is wondering why she only sees her grandchildren a few times a year.

            
            She is wondering why her sister is sick. She is wondering who put the bug in her head that is making her crazy, making her forget her life.

            
            She is wondering why her husband had to leave, and why she thought he would be around forever. She is wondering why she never found a friend as close as him.

            
            She is wondering why she is alone.

            
            A car drives past, a little red one. She always liked red cars. She continues walking. She wants to get home, to get home and drink tea out of her nice teacup. She is trying to concentrate on the sound of the snow crunching under her boots, the feel of it sticking in the treads. She is trying to stop thinking about tomatoes.

            
            The snow is growing thicker, and the evening is getting darker, and she is hurrying home, crunching crunching crunching. And she is walking, faster faster faster, and thinking about tomatoes. She doesn’t want to think about tomatoes anymore; she doesn’t need them; she never really liked them. But they are swarming in her head, and all she can think about is how they will taste, and how many she will get, and who will give them to her.

            
            The key is ready in her hand. She opens her front door and drops her heavy bag on the floor. It is full of books, full of lives she has yet to live. They spill out onto the floor. She picks them up gently, checking each one over, looking for bruises. She puts them softly on the table, arranges them nice, picks one out. The books are like tomatoes, she thinks, she must read them before they whither and decay.

            
            She is reading, and she is thinking about the story. She is trapped in the world of her book, and the only images she sees are those placed on the pages. She is a detective inBoston, hunting down the jewel thief. She is a farmer in the south, struggling to get by during a drought. She is a queen in Egypt, juggling politics and love. And she will stay there, reading, until she is exhausted and has to return to her world.

            
            Then, she will think about tomatoes, and who will give them to her.