Onion

He could have had love but instead he chose onions. Sassy reds, sensual walla wallas, and
coy yellow onions lolled on his granite countertop. Long and hard, his Wusthof was slick with sweet onion juice as Chris sliced. Stefany, with the pouty lips and the annoying voice that always sounded as if every sentence was a question, texted. Again. He let his phone vibrate with her pent up frustrations. The open pickling jars awaited. Chairman Meow rubbed his silky head on Chris’ pant legs. Peppercorns and cloves of garlic were added to the onions and the brine. His phone rang. It was Cameron, his buddy. Chris remembered Cameron’s party scheduled that night, a night to slam beers at Cam’s place till you had a good buzz then pub crawl until somebody—usually Philly—throws up. Chris let it ring as he sealed his lids tight.
Once his fridge was loaded with pickled delights, Chris headed out to his patio with a crisp Riesling and a seed catalog. The Chairman dozed by the sliding glass doors and Chris lay back spent and elated considering going another round with pert slender carrots and satin smooth peppers

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