I spent the latter half of the day yesterday carrying around a perfectly ripe tomato with such love and care that I might as well have been stroking it and calling it precious.
A woman on the elevator even remarked “That looks like a good tomato!” and in my dazed tomato stupor all I could manage was “Yeah” and a dreamy look towards said fruit.
It eventually made it home after a car ride on my lap and only one panicked moment of playing “catch before it hits the floor” where it was put in the center of a cutting board on the center of the counter, a spot fit for only the best of produce.
I left it from there, in the care of the cats and protection of the husband. Who ate it.
Ok really he put it in a home-made dinner that he then served to me. Which is sickeningly cute and just points to the well known fact that I married the best man ever.