Cheese (train writings)
by Matt Kang
Before you say anything else —sir, please—let me tell you something.
When I first moved to the commune, I loved it. I needed it. It was a nourishment of the soul; an escape from the hard streets and vacant stares of the city. But, after some uncountable number of months, I began to yearn for society: the noise, the anxiousness, the wider array of emotions well beyond strained contentment.
This one night was notable. John, a former advertising executive, now the food distributor of the commune, handed out wedges of a bleach-white cheese. Fingers light, wrist limp and his smile plastic, he handed me a chunk of it. Hungry from the morning-to-afternoon harvest, I took a bite right from hand to mouth.
"This tastes like goat cheese," I said.
"Actually, it is our finest human cheese," said John.
Way down the long oak table, Margerie, a larger woman about eight months pregnant, looked straight at me and gave me an assuring grin.
I spent the rest of my night gargling my mouth at the spigot.
And this is why, sir, I would like my job back at this company.