The Curse of the Ripe Tomato

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John Eppel. The Curse of the Ripe Tomato

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The Curse

of the

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In his fantasy she was barefoot, and it was for the sound of bare feet pitter-pattering on the tarred road outside that he began to strain his ears, long before the magical hour. He wondered about her name. Matilda came to mind. Then Amanda. Then Snow White, Cinderella, The Little Match Girl.... By midnight he was physically ill with about-to-be requited love. The odour of kippers and the stuffy atmosphere did not help. He undid his bootlaces and he loosened his regulation tie. He downed a large gherkin in two bites. He struggled to keep his fantasy in check when it persisted in venturing into those soft areas barely concealed by the rags that hung from the perfect form of this abandoned girl.

4 a.m. finally arrived. Instead of the pitter-patter of bare feet, the unmistakable squeak of a bicycle badly in need of lubrication assaulted Duiker’s tingling consciousness. He heard it clattering to a stop outside the entrance to the factory, heard keys, heard an unromantic hawking followed by an unromantic spitting, heard the familiar creak of the security gate as it swung open, heard sensible shoes clomping down the passage toward the guard’s room.

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