She never threw bananas on a rooftop before. Certainly not four in a bundle. An onion, yes. But that couldn’t be helped at the time. The short-term renting neighbors were playing trance music too loud. She couldn’t get their attention in any other way. The golden ball landed on their terrace with a note attached to it: Keep the music down, I’m sick. Thank you. (She wasn’t sick or thankful.)

However, there was no note on the bananas. The message was clear to their recipient. He was sitting naked on the sofa, working on his computer.

It was a steamy August day. The beach town was chock-full of tourists. That was expected, but there used to be seasons. An order. Now it was one long, tiring period, where you were surrounded by drunken baked potatoes. They moved there in winter and decided to leave every summer. They could work from anywhere. But that was three years ago and anywhere became nowhere.

Things became dense. She didn’t feel like going out photographing the inhabitants anymore. The morning was ruined by yet another argument. This time about the bananas. She bought them for him, but he left them to rot. After a few days they were covered with brown freckles and smelled too sweet.

He ate one a day until recently. She didn’t notice when it stopped. It reminded her of her mother, buying food she didn’t need in packs. It made her angry, that self sacrificing facade. That woman she had to live with till she was old enough to disappear. Live the dream.

Now the dream’s scrotum was stuck to the fake leather couch.

Do you think the bananas are okay? she asked.

They’re fine, he said, and kept his head buried in the screen.

But look, they’re rotting.

They are maturing.

He almost jumped out of his seat and walked toward her. His cock swinging happy. He picked up the bunch and squeezed it. It’s all good, he said.

It was at that moment she lifted the heavy bundle and threw it out the kitchen window. Just like that. On the roof next door, where the short-term neighbors once were and now gone—the carnival has left town without her. She didn’t think about it; she just wanted it done. And it went very well. It looked like she’d been throwing bananas her whole life.

I knew you’d do that, he smirked. Now they’ll smell and there’s nothing you can do about it.

She looked at the bruised crescents. She wondered if his ex-wife felt relief when he left home for a younger woman. If there were any fruits involved. If they fell perfectly in between the roof slates, so she had to watch them decay every day. Until they dissolve.

Noa Sivan

Noa Sivan

Noa Sivan was born and raised in Israel and is currently living in Granada, Spain. She is a graphic designer and a writer. Three of her pieces were published in 2005 in an anthology edited by award winning Israeli author Yitzhak Ben Ner. In 2013 Sivan published a digital book of micro stories called Semantic Satiation, that was translated into English by Yardenne Greenspan. In 2016 she started writing in English. Her stories were published in Jellyfish review, r.kv.r.y Quarterly, Eleven Eleven, and FRiGG.
Noa Sivan

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