William Carlos Williams is a genius. And he has my lover’s initials. Or rather my lover has his initials. I often eat the plums that were in the icebox. But I don’t expect to be forgiven. Not everything depends upon that. Or the wheelbarrow of promises that still lies at the bottom of his heart. My lover likes plums. The ones with the tough skins and the scarlet flesh. Not the yellow. We like the same food. Except for chops. I won’t eat lambs to the slaughter. Once I was called a ‘goo goo-eyed’ vegetarian. Which basically means I won’t eat anything cute. With big imploring eyes. Because it would be almost like me eating myself.  Lambs are cute. Baby cows are cute. And pigs are definitely cute. So they are all out. Even mutton dressed as lamb. But I eat chicken and fish and sometimes beef. If it isn’t veal. He lived on a farm once. So he hates sheep. He tells me that sheep are the stupidest animals ever. They deserve to be eaten. He even tells me the story about how sheep follow each other in straight lines and that the earth becomes shiny and solid beneath their feet. And he and his brothers would ride along their little tracks. On their bikes. Red bikes. Like the red wheelbarrow in his heart. One day he might even grow me some plums so that I can pick them and put them in our icebox. I want a red Smeg fridge. I want my whole kitchen to be red. He draws the line at a red fridge. He has never heard of Smeg. Smeegle. Smorg the dragon. He doesn’t understand the importance of a big, red, expensive fridge. He thinks fridges are just for keeping things cold. Like plums.