Inside Me: One

The marinated olives.

It is funny. I do not remember the party as much, but I remember we went to the tiny restaurant not far from the venue after. We left as a group because it closed and we were hungry — there were only drinks at the party. I did not know half of the people who spilled across two of the tiny tables with me, but we were all starving.

The olives were complimentary, along with bread. I like appetizer olives. I think I was in the part of the group that wanted them for the table to share. I picked up one with a toothpick, and I was transported. Pizza was my main entree, it was delicious, but I never ordered it again from the restaurant.

But I always got the olives. And the bread so I could dip it in the marinated olive oil.

They were beautiful, all colors — green, red, and not quite brown. Along with the olives was marinated garlic that was perfect — not too hard and not too soft. Red pepper flakes, which I also love and are ubiquitous whether I eat at home or dine out. Lemon zest was flaked over them like sea salt usually would be. The combination of citrus and garlic was intoxicating. I felt ashamed that I might have eaten more than my share of the olives, but I could not stop popping them into my mouth.

I always asked for more bread, too — because I could not possibly let even a drop of that marinated olive oil go to waste. My friend once let me bring home — was it the second-order of olives? — because we devoured the first one so quickly. They were in my fridge for a few days, and I ate each one like it was precious. A few at a time, I’d pop one or two into my mouth and then close the to-go container back.

Those were the very specific olives I was thinking about when Gen and Duncan were at the bar. I imagined dim magenta-hued lighting, sitting on a stool and nibbling at whatever was in the tiny dishes there. Potato chips, pretzels, nuts, and olives, but never like those from that restaurant.

That is why it is fiction.

There is a bit of me in everything I write; how could there not be? I am writing the story. But sometimes it is something so small.

Like an olive.

This is what inspired me when I was writing Olives. When I started this publication, I wanted to write small nonfiction pieces, and it was not until I wrote Olives that I discovered how I want them to be. I will not write one of these for every story, but I will write more.