Cancer opens his lunchbox. There is a nice meal inside, separated by plastic compartments, packed by his foster mother like specialized tools or military ordinance. White bread crushing mayo and green tomato, pressed down by maternal fingers until white goo drips from the edges, and a side of chopped-up hot dogs with banana ketchup. It is one of those special holidays that won’t matter when the sun is obscured by flies and there is a reason for those flies. But for now, consumer electronics.
His scout uniform is a dark flower on the green picnic area, which has a wonderful view of the pink ocean. A path of desire has been worn up the hill.
He takes the durian from his backpack. He eats this fruit to train himself to be around the man, who sweats shamefully with an inner poison.
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