Popping Olives

He plucks a pear from the tree and tosses it my way. Hands fumble, but nails sink into flesh to maintain a solid grip. He doesn't see me slip. Examine the freshness of the fruit before sinking teeth through skin. Open the lid. A woven picnic basket with delights inside. Turkey and tomato sandwiches, crusts removed. Freshly baked blueberry scones and sour apple jam. Camembert and olives stuffed with pimento. Put the pear aside. Less interesting now than it used to be. He plucks another. Not for me. And joins me on the maroon checkered blanket. Popping olive after olive down his gullet. The unthinkable. Guzzling brine like some sort of animal. A subtle frown, equal parts disdain, and disgust. Nothing more can be discussed, as he continues to chug. Slip into a smile. Unthinkable, but thought of. Stuffed with poison and pimento. Chugs, then chokes. Trying to spit out the pit, begging. I bid him goodbye.