My plastic diet is about giving up delights.
Packaged inside a box with the plastic film window, held in the cradle of plastic, then individually wrapped is a treasure that Ed spies as we shop. “They’re on sale!” he exclaims in as close to a squeal as a baritone can get.
I do not need to see. I know they look delicious. I know they are nestled unscathed, perfectly uncrumbled in their triple-cloak of the forbidden. Hand crafted in the tradition of the old world — packaged in the way of the modern.
“NO!” I snap as Ed reached for the box of lemon biscotti. “Too much plastic.”
I want them. I imagine their sweet tartness melting inside my warm mouth. Rock hard as I suck off the icing. Dripping from a quick plunge into my tea. I savor. I swallow.
“Ohhhhh. Please Ed. Put them back.” I moan, turning away lest I give in to the temptation of the individually wrapped.