How to Describe an Apricot

Liz tried to describe the taste of apricots to herself.

This was always her biggest problem. Feeling something and having no words for it. It was why two therapists in a row had quit on her. What they took for a reluctance to communicate was actually a lack of vocabulary. Her latest doctor had suggested she seek out opportunities to describe things. She recommended trying a new food, and then immediately piecing together the experience of tasting it--using a thesaurus even, if need be. The need, it turned out, was there, but the online reference she used didn’t seem to help. She had never tried an apricot and while strolling through the market, that was the first thing she grabbed. Not only could she not describe it, but she couldn’t even decide whether or not she liked it.

This was a common occurrence as of late.

Despite promising her new therapist she would focus on one hurdle at a time, she found herself needing to accomplish two different yet daunting tasks on the same day. The Apricot Project was the task assigned to her, and the destruction of her marital bed was the one she had given herself. Liz had bought an ax at the local hardware store, and when the man asked, somewhat misogynistically, if she planned on cutting down any trees, she made it a point to lock eyes with him before saying that her husband had left her for her best friend, and she was going to chop up their bed, and then sleep on the floor for the rest of her life. The man selling her the ax offered her a twenty percent discount if she opened up a store credit card.

Liz declined the offer.

Now with her new ax on her left side (sticker still on, receipt still in the bag in the hall) and a small plate with a half-chewed apricot on her right side, she sat looking at the bed that had brought her so much joy for such a long time. It was the first major purchase Liz and Greg made when they moved into their home after living in a studio apartment for the first year of their marriage. There had been some discussion about getting a couch first and sleeping on an air mattress, but they decided that if they wanted to start a family, a proper bed made more sense. They invested in a Queen bed with a matte black padded headboard and bamboo sheets from Cozy Earth. Liz believed that if she was as comfortable as possible, she and Greg would conceive a much happier baby.

After two years of trying, they began to sleep with a pillow between them. Greg said it was because he thrashed too much in the night, and he didn’t want to hurt Liz, but she knew that wasn’t true. She’d often wake up in the middle of the night, and Greg would be laying on his, peacefully breathing, not even the slightest snore or sign of restlessness. He just didn’t want to hold her anymore. Four or five months later, he suggested they invest in a nicer couch than the one they’d gotten at a furniture outlet near Quincy. Liz felt the one Greg liked was much too big. It absorbed nearly two thirds of their living room, but once it was installed, she was quick to see why he’d chosen it. Every night, he would fall asleep on the couch, and when she’d try to get him to come to bed, he’d pretend to be in such a deep sleep that she couldn’t rouse him. This charade went on for a week or so before Liz stopped trying to get him back into their bedroom. The Queen felt like a desert without him in it. Liz pictured herself riding a camel across vast expanses of bamboo and linen.

She confessed all this to Jonah, her best friend and co-worker at the plant nursery where she worked. They had known each other since Liz had been hired at the nursery shortly after meeting Greg. She liked to say that the two most important men came into her life at the same time, and she was so blessed. Jonah often regaled Liz with stories of his dating life. Lots of romantic entanglements and relationships that burned out after a passionate night or two. She often felt that she was the ying to his yang. A married woman with a stable home life that, sure, was going through a bit of turbulence, but would eventually right itself.

Then one day, she came home from work and decided she needed a nap. Jonah had called out sick that day and when she texted him to see if he was okay, he told her that it was just a stomach bug. Greg wouldn’t be home until late. His job as the merchandise manager at a bookstore chain sometimes required late nights, but it was becoming more and more common. At the store’s Christmas party, Liz had surveyed every woman Greg worked with in the hopes of detecting if he was having an affair. Most of his female coworkers were either married themselves or retired ladies just making some extra money on the side. She didn’t see any logical suspects, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Greg was stepping out on her. A wife knows these things, and Liz was beginning to see physical manifestations of it on her person. She had developed a series of small rashes on her right arm, and a patch of hair was falling out above her left ear. She knew if she could give Greg a baby, all this tumultuousness would stop, but the specialist they saw seemed to think it would be nearly impossible without a financially astronomical medical intervention. There was a better word for it, but Liz couldn’t think of what it was.

All of that had been on her mind, and in addition to the rashes and hair loss, she had begun vomiting for no reason at all. This seemed especially cruel considering how desperately she’d love to believe it was morning sickness. Her therapist at the time had suggested that she was giving herself symptoms of pregnancy as a kind of wishful, subconscious activity. Liz wondered why she couldn’t give herself one of the nicer symptoms, but were there any nice symptoms? She wasn’t sure. Despite Jonah being out for the day, her manager sent her home after her second bout of puking. The nursery was dead that day anyway. All the poinsettias for Christmas had been purchased, and now they’d be lucky if they got more than two customers a day. Liz knew that either she or Jonah would be laid off soon, and she was fairly sure it would be her, but if it was Jonah, she might throw herself on the sword to save him. After all, she came from a house with two incomes. Losing a job would be detrimental to Jonah. On her way back home, she practiced telling her boss in her most selfless voice that she would be willing to give up her job if Jonah could keep his. She was reciting the speech as she walked into the house she loved so much, into the bedroom she loved so much, and while pulling back the covers on the bed she loved so much. There was so much love, and very little of it being returned to her. Greg now felt like another object that she could admire, but never engage with, but did that matter? Couldn’t she still love him until he thawed out and saw that, child or no child, they could still have a successful marriage? She couldn’t think of what someone would call a happy marriage where it wasn’t quite happy, but it was--what was it? Acceptable? Could a marriage be acceptable?

Throwing on one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweats she bought for the gym before giving up ever going, Liz got into bed for her nap and immediately smelled it.

Jonah’s cologne.

They didn’t try to deny it. It had begun the night Liz invited Jonah over to dinner when another man had ghosted him after what he thought was a triumphant first date. She’d bought the cheapest wine she could find, and the three of them got drunk and played Cards Against Humanity. Liz had never really spent time with Greg and Jonah together, and she loved seeing her two favorite guys laughing and enjoying each other’s company. When she felt herself nodding off, she encouraged them to keep hanging out while she turned in for the night. Greg needed more friends, and Jonah certainly could have used a steady male influence in his life. Each of them gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she remembered feeling as though she had the best life in the world as she drifted off to sleep on her Brooklinen pillows.

Funny to think that while she had been cuddling with her gratitude, her husband and best friend were kissing each other’s stomachs in the very next room. Shortly after admitting to the affair, he moved out of the house and into the condo Jonah shared with his cousin, a mixed martial arts fighter. Liz had sent both of them a series of text messages and voicemails since then, but she’d heard nothing in return.

Now, she wanted to destroy the bed.

It had not been the cause of Liz’s current state, but it was the location of her descending action. A betrayal, yes, but also, a reminder. A reminder of how foolish she had been. A reminder that she could never truly feel at ease. It was a war dressed up with pillows and blankets in a space that was meant to offer her authentic peace. The bed could have made a case for the couch being destroyed instead, but Greg had mentioned before he left that he would send movers for the couch, and since he was the one who paid for it, she had to leave it alone.

The bed, however, had been a joint purchase, and so she was at least half-entitled to eradicate it. The fact that it was where the infidelity had occurred had sealed its fate. She had not told her third therapist about this, because she was nervous he would try and talk her out of it. She was serious about sleeping on the floor after the bed was gone. She didn’t want to feel comfort. Comfort had lulled her into a sense of--a sense of--a sense of what, exactly? She knew she hadn’t noticed things. Or had she noticed them, but, failing to be able to describe them to herself, carried on as though they must not be important if she couldn’t attach words to the concerns?

She picked up the apricot off the tiny, chipped plate she pulled out of the cupboard. A small bite elicited no new insights. It still tasted the way it had before, and she was still just as perplexed regarding how to pull details from it. Setting it back down, she grabbed the ax, and clumsily got onto her feet. The bed was unmade, and it would never be made again. She wouldn’t bother removing the comforter and sheets and pillows before beginning the dismantling. Why should any of it be spared? Why when it had all contributed to her dream of a life? A dream being inherently--inherently what? Surreal? No. No, not real at all, but not real in a way that felt good. That felt good right up until it didn’t.

Liz thought about where the first strike should happen. The foot of the bed? Where she had hoped one day a dog would rest. The headboard? Where the black matte gave the illusion of sophistication even though Liz and Greg could never abandon their love of Budweiser and bad tv shows? The spot where he slept? The spot where she tried to sleep? She visualized herself bringing the ax down over and over again. Having the strength to drive it through the mattress and straight into the floor. She would make no sound as she did it. She wouldn’t scream out. She wouldn’t reach for catharsis. She would simply chop and chop until it was just lumber and thread.

With the ax in her hands, she felt something she couldn’t name, and the inability made her feel worthless. It made her feel--she didn’t know. She didn’t know what it made her feel. Then, a pinch. A piece of the apricot dislodged from between her back teeth. Almost instantaneously, she had a word.

Tart.

That’s what it was. It was tart, and because she was given tart, she was also given fresh. Fresh and refreshing. She dropped the ax and picked the apricot back up. She took a large bite. There was peach there, yes, but there was also plum. A firmness. Acidity. The flesh was holding against her until it couldn’t. The violence she was going to inflict upon the bed now refocused itself onto the apricot. Liz ate every last piece of it except for the pit. Suddenly, she was filled with definitions and descriptions. She had an experience, and she knew what that experience was.

Tossing the pit onto the bed, she saw a small spark catch. Before she could entertain any curiosity as to how it happened, the spark converted itself into a flame, and the flame caught the fabric of the comforter. Within seconds, the bed was engulfed, but strangely, the fire relegated itself strictly to that one piece of furniture. The walls and ceiling stayed untouched minus some smoke damage. When the fire was finally out, all that was left of the Queen was a charred metal frame.

She had done it.

Liz had destroyed the bed.

And she knew what it felt like.

And she knew how to tell herself what she’d done.