At nearly 76, overripe and brown-spotted, I didn’t know that another symptom of advancing years, mine at least, is that I can no longer eat a big apple, for instance, or a large burger, and I certainly can’t eat a whole banana these days.
This morning I guillotined a banana right through its yellow-green jacket and sliced half onto a small bowl of granola. At lunch, I plopped the remaining banana half onto my husband’s plate along with his usual two-and-a-half pastrami sandwiches, carrot, pile of crisps, and hunk of Cheshire cheese.
My lunch was two pieces of cold pizza, just the toppings, no crust.
Peter ate everything except for the banana. It was still reclining across his plate, yellow peel draped elegantly across the cut end.
“Eat your banana,” I said.
“I did,” he replied.
“No, it’s still there. Look.”
He lifted the peel and peeked inside. “I hate half of it!” he protested.
“No, I ate half of it. I gave you the rest.”
“Because I can’t eat a whole banana anymore.”
“There’s only half here.”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s the half I couldn’t eat. I put it there for you.”
“How am I supposed to remember that? That’s ancient history. I finished eating five minutes ago.”
“I’ll eat it later.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “You’ll forget.”
“Forget what?” he asked. And he wasn’t kidding.