The Acquired Taste of Bitter

Her dark scowl while driving was fitting with the frozen desert which surrounded her car in all directions. Only one of two vehicles on an infinite highway that had so many times before been stained with loss, dread, and blood. After countless failed attempts signaling for him to pull over, she angrily cut in front of him, forcing themselves onto the bare roadside to confront one another. Immediately, she rushed out of her car with a pistol at the man’s head.

“Out of the car, now!” She yelled, not giving any leeway.

When the man did so with his hands halfway up, she turned him against the hood. He said nothing, but simply groaned in pain.

“My son is going to die, you understand?” She yelled half in tears, “All because of you! I saw you take it--I know you have the money!”

Even quicker than this all occurred, the man pulled a fist from his side as she began to tie his back, promptly knocking her unconscious.

When the woman awoke, she found herself no longer in the desert. She was sitting in a strange house, at a dinner table and in handcuffs. The man was sitting across from her with her pistol beside him. In front of her was a plate of steak, salad, and a slice of bread.

“Made the malt bread myself.” He said. “It’s an acquired taste, you don’t have to eat it. You don’t have to do any of this, if you don’t want to.” He explained, while large flakes of snow fell outside the window beside them.

“Where’d you get the handcuffs?” She asked in a daze.

“I’m a retired sheriff.”

“A corrupt--!” She cleared her throat, “A corrupt sheriff then.”

The man didn’t respond, only expressing an apology for her head as he leaned back to light a thin cigar.

“You know,” he exclaimed, “I’ve always wondered how far two people of opposite views could get with one another, if they just sat together to eat without grief or judgement.”

The woman stared into the man’s hard eyes, looking for any ounce of sympathy. “My son is in the hospital. I don’t even know if by this point, he’s still alive.”

“Well, this isn’t the way I’d want to spend it; if I were you, anyways.” The man said as he exhaled a large puff of smoke. “If I did what you think I did, I wouldn’t deny it. But given that, you shouldn’t sink to my level in search of revenge and miss your son’s last minutes. It doesn’t help him, nor does it help you. What do you think he wants right now?”

She looked out the window, too disgusted to look at him. “I just want to know why you did it.”

“The truth is, lady, I didn’t take the “money”. I’m sorry. I would help you if I could, but I don’t know who did.”

Instantly, her disposition changed to irritation. “You don’t think I know? It was the same car! It was you, it had to be!”

“Is that really a coincidence so hard to believe?” He asked, half laughingly. “You shouldn’t dwell on things beyond your control, regardless. You should focus on your son. Like a good mother, which I can tell you are. I didn’t mean to knock you cold out there, and I would have let you be if I knew about your kid. But it was well below zero, I couldn’t leave you. I was off duty and driving my personal car. I can assure you it wasn’t the car you were after.”

She put her head in her hands, as though coming to the realization that she would not know the fate of her son, nor the money stolen for his operation. The man, meanwhile, crossed his legs, and took a bite of the malt bread.

“How much was stolen from you?”

“Ten thousand--as if you don’t know.” She said quietly and with a lump in her throat.

“Ack!” The man spit the bread out. “This batch apparently turned out wrong. Too bitter. Far too bitter. Bread’s an easily acquired taste, but bitter sure isn’t. It’s not for the faint-hearted, and it takes a lot of time and effort to make. And by then, what’s really the point? Normal bread will always be better, no matter who you are, but sometimes it, like everything else, just doesn’t turn out right. Then again, I bet you know something about bitter things; and yet you sure don’t want your bread...”

He reached under the table, pausing presumably to count bills, and presented the lady with the full amount of money. Added to this, he reached in his pocket and threw her his car keys. He then leaned over to unlock her handcuffs where she eagerly rubbed her wrists.

“You could just be lying. Giving me the money to get off the hook. You could be him.”

“That’s true,” he said, “and there’d be no way of knowing. We could sit here all day if you’d like to, eating bitter malted bread and getting acquainted with it. You could even make a batch if you’d like. It would probably turn out even worse though, seeing as you have no experience making such ‘taboo’ foods. Yes, it seems to me that we could just eat and deliberate over it; but that’s not going to decide if your son lives, and it sure won’t make your life more sweet.”

She slowly stood up from the table and nabbed the gun. All the while keeping eye contact. The man only took another puff, not even flinching at the action. She opened the door with her free hand, clenching the gun towards him as some snowflakes lightly fell in. She began to squeeze it evermore with a distraught look, as though on the brink of shooting him. After a long pause, only the phrase “Thank you” was mustered from her as a tear ran down her face. She sped out the door, dropping the gun in the process. Thereby leaving the bitter bread behind, not caring if the man was the thief.