The lip-red plum rots in the fridge. I thought, to lengthen its life, I ought to keep it cold. Now it bruises more slowly. Brown patches, speckled white, creep across its surface. Many times I might have pressed its chalky pelt against my teeth, broken its thin, kinked skin. I’ve imagined the sweetness of its flesh to the feel of my stomach turning. I could throw it away, but it would only go on rotting with its like-fated kin in the compost bin. This way it teaches me about bruises. How they’re made by blunt objects and neglect.