Freezer ice had melted into grey beards grown on what was once bread. I pulled at a plastic bag; its bottom emptied. Out fell putrid slime.
I smelled damp; cabbage; urine. I remembered stacking the fridge head-high with healthy tomatoes, butter and cream from the farmers’ market; bright root vegetables.
Your fridge magnet still spelled: ‘dinners in oven’. It was a disaster of a lasagne, but I probably shouldn’t have flattened your skull with a mortar because of it.
I had told you I didn’t like green peppers.
After six years in Holloway, I had learnt to appreciate their taste.
(c) Rebecca Shahoud
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