Green Beans

I'm hoping this chicken sausage is cooked all the way through. I think I cooked it through. It's pink and soft in the middle so I can't really tell. That could go either way right? I don't cook many chicken sausages. Maybe in hindsight I should've microwaved it, had it over quick in thirty seconds just like it said on the package. But I didn't want to do that, it's unnatural. It gives no sign that it's been prepared except for split ends, make's it look like it's gorging. And the grill's busted so pan fry it was.

Then there's the makeshift salad I threw together. Some leftover green beans, I chopped up some cherry tomatoes and some basil that was going bad and threw the rest out. A little olive oil, a little balsamic, a little salt and pepper and you're done. The entree and side almost go together. Not really. The chicken sausage has little bits of sweet apple in it, so sometimes when I bite I worry it's blood. It's not. I think. But the sweetness and the salad, they don't really pair, but I'm not complaining.

The bread is dry. I should have toasted it. There was a rat in my toaster the other night so I'm not using it. Could've used the oven I guess. Hindsight.

I got the green beans from my roommate, Charles. He's an older middle-aged black man, about fifty I'd say. Got divorced a while back, got remarried and divorced again. Now he's left his life to go live by his kids and be a screenwriter. I asked him if he'd ever written before and he said no. I asked if this was the town to be a writer in and he said all he had to do was mail the pages. I asked if he'd pay his rent on time and he said yes. That was all I needed to know.

I don't really see him and when I do he doesn't say much. Four days ago there was a note that said "Have some green beans, in the fridge. I don't want to throw them away." And I haven't heard from him since. I don't even know if he's here nights. Guess I'll worry about it when the first rolls around. I'm happy to have the green beans though. Even if his kids aren't into spending time with him and he gets a stack of rejections, I'm happy for these green beans. It'd be nice if he were around a little more, but beggars and choosers and all that.

That must be quite the feeling. To just quit your life and go someplace new, try out something else. And for him to do it now, I guess I have to hand it to him, tip my hat in his general direction if ever I knew where he was. I bet he's scared. I should be scared. I'm not scared of anything. And I'm sick of these leftovers night in and night out.

My stomach hurts. I'll microwave that sucker next time. Who do I have to be fancy for? Hindsight.