Life in the fridge

Looking into the refrigerator, I can't help but notice the lettuce has its own crisper drawer. The drawer is even labeled "Lettuce Crisper." Surely the refrigerator has heard that separate but equal is inherently un-equal. Why isn't there a "Butter Softener" drawer?

A dribble in the bottom of the orange juice carton is not considerate, but an unfulfilled promise of future satisfaction.

My eyes light up as I spot the full box of eggs. Think of all the different dishes to be made with them if only I took the time to cook. Still they remain untouched, with hope for the future. On the other hand, the hazy apple on the bottom shelf is running out of time. It can't wait much longer.

I always purchase a whole jar of olives, but only eat one. The rest remain in the jar, a hundred eyes peering up as I move them aside. Leaning on the olives, a bottle of ketchup is inverted, ever-ready to discharge the last remainder when called to duty.

A forlorn chunk of cheddar cheese ducks near the back, one side frosty and forgotten. The plastic zipper on the bag broke long ago, but the back of the refrigerator is too cold for mold.

The single slice of bologna remembers when its siblings helped to provide a quick energetic snack. It wears the crumpled container like a VFW hat.

Only half a slice of apple pie remains in the dish. Once that is eaten, the entire pie will be gone, and the anticipation of dessert will dissipate.

Tiny green cheerleaders root for improved health and vitality from a small plastic box marked "Broccoli Sprouts."

The leaky, aging milk jug drains to the bottom, leaving a ring on the shelf as a marker of its short life.

"Hey, close the fridge!"

"Sorry. There's nothing good in here. You wanna go out for dinner?"

"Sure!"