◉ 011 | Why I Don’t Eat Blueberry Anymore

Early ’90s.

Mid summer

in Split—

my hometown.

Halfway through school holidays.

I finish lunch

and crave something sweet.

Nothing in the pantry.

Pick my pocket money

and walk down the street.

After-lunch siesta.

Too hot for most.

Turn the corner.

Look from the distance

for the white bin in front of the store.

It’s there.

Flies circle around it.

Inside, freezer humming.

I scan the ice-cream board

and point to a Ledo Borovnica.

Blueberry icy pole.

Costs 2 kunas.

About 40 cents.

The store owner wears

a white linen shirt.

And white espadrilles.

Taps the price into the register.

Gives a small nod.

I unwrap it outside.

Eat too fast.

It’s cold.

I feel it

behind my eyes.

Walk straight back in.

He fills out a crossword on the counter.

Always freshly shaved.

Puffy face.

Taps in the price again.

Slides it over.

I walk home

slowly eating it this time.

It drips onto my wrist.

I like the taste.

Check the couch for coins.

Pull back cushions.

Dig behind the backrest.

Find one.

Third time in.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t smile.

Moves like a sloth.

Taps the price.

Places it on the counter.

I sit on the stone steps

across the store.

Unwrap the stick.

Sweet as hell.

Sticky hands.

Sticky knees.

Head home.

Wash up.

Open my sister’s piggy bank.

Ceramic. Yellow.

Hidden in her bottom drawer.

Rubber plug underneath.

Pop it loose.

“Borrow” a few coins.

Fourth time in.

He stares a second too long.

Rabbit-like forward teeth.

No facial expression.

He taps. Slower.

Pauses. Then hands it over.

I sit again.

This blueberry stick

melts too fast.

Coats my mouth.

Something doesn’t feel right.

I open the drawer in the living room.

Slide mum’s wallet out.

Maroon leather, edges worn.

Open the coin section.

Steal 2 kunas.

Just enough

for one more.

Close it quiet.

Put it back exactly where it was.

Fifth visit.

He watches me step in.

Tired eyes.

No blink.

No words.

Places it on the counter.

The sun is high.

The icy pole melts down my arm.

Sticky elbows.

Sticky chin.

Sticky everything.

I flush the toilet.

Lie on the floor in my bedroom.

Stick in one hand.

Fan spinning above

just like my stomach.

I don’t go again.