Bagel
Bartholomew was having some difficulty explaining exactly what his dissatisfaction was with the bagel. It wasn't stale, it wasn't doughy. It tasted OK. But, all the same, the bagel wasn't a winner. The bagel was green, though. That might have been the problem. Bagels probably aren't supposed to be green, he thought. I should probably tell someone. Bartholomew got up to go tell someone.
"Excuse me, miss?"
"One second," said the lady standing behind counter.
Bartholomew waited eighty-seven seconds while the apron-clad young woman stood and stared blankly at the wall behind him.
"Yes?" she asked.
"This bagel is green."
"I don't think bagels are supposed to be green."
"Yeah. That was kind of the issue."
"Understandably."
"Any idea as to why it might be green?"
"Not really, no."
The woman turned to look at the baskets of breadstuffs behind her.
"None of the other bagels are green."
Bartholomew meditated on this newfound information.
"Hmm..."
He held out the paper-plated bagel with his left hand and, placing his right hand upon his chin, struck a contemplative pose. He lifted the bagel higher, putting it between himself and the humming fluorescent ceiling lights, before slowly bringing it back down. Bartholomew stared at the bagel, and then stared some more. His right hand remained firmly on his chin. His chin remained firmly on his face.
"Man," said the woman, "that is really, seriously green, too. Like neon on a country night green."
"That it is."
"I'm actually a little surprised I didn't notice it earlier."
"Yeah, me too. You'd think you'd know better than to sell green bagels to people."
The woman made a scoffing sound. She followed this up by actually scoffing, "Please. I'm paid by the hour. I don't have to notice a damn thing. On a good day I'm barely cognizant of where we keep the butter."
"You, on the other hand," she continued, hopping over the counter, "should know better than to be eating green bagels. You're halfway through that bad boy."
"I was hungry."
"Dude," said the lady as she approached the bagel, "that shit is downright unnatural. You don't eat things like that."
"It looks like it might glow in the dark. I bet it glows in the dark."
"Only one way to find out."
The deli employee vaulted the counter again and walked into the back room. The front lights fluttered out. Bartholomew was bathed in a funky green photoluminescence.
"OK," he said. "That's alarming."
"Honestly?" queried the counter-lady as she walked back to the front. "I think the fact that you're glowing is a little bit more fucked up."
"What? No," said Bartholomew. "That's just the bagel. I'm not glowing, I just look like I'm glowing."
"I don't know about that."
"Watch."
Bartholomew put the garishly tinted bagel on the counter and backed up six and a half paces.
"See?"
"You're still green, dude."
"Bull..."
Bartholomew looked down at his eerily incandescent stomach.
"Shit."
"Told you," said the counter-lady, who could now also be accurately described as the lady sitting on the counter.
"That's probably bad, right?"
"I can't imagine it's good. I mean, unless you plan on renting yourself out as a nightlight to small children."
"I doubt that would fly. I'd probably end up on Dateline. And then probably jail. I'm not that good a runner."
"You're probably not going to be allowed on planes or in federal buildings anymore. Movie theaters, either."
"That's unfortunate. I like movies."
The bagel on the counter turned a brilliant shade of orange.
"That ain't good," said the woman.
The bagel on the counter exploded.
"That's probably worse," said Bartholomew.
The lady on the counter had become the lady on the floor. The vast majority of the counter had ceased to exist as a counter and could now best be described as a pile of splinters and ash that may have at one point been a counter. The bagel, for its part, was now scattered throughout the deli in little, itty-bitty pieces.
"I think I broke my arm," said the bleeding and freshly mangled counter-lady.
"Serves you right."
"What? What the fuck, man? I thought we were simpatico!"
"That's when I was just glowing. Now I'm exploding. I don't want to be exploding."
"Fine. Can you just drive me to the hospital?"
Bartholomew turned a brilliant shade of orange.
"On second thought, I'll call a cab."
"Fuck."
The deli employee rearranged herself into a position that, while unsteady and a bit wobbly, was vertical enough to be considered standing.
"Ow ow ow."
"I just wanted breakfast and now I'm going to die. My breakfast is going to murder me."
"I'm sorry I ow contributed to your untimely death."
"It's OK, it's not your fault. I mean, it is, pretty much entirely, but I don't feel like arguing."
"... th-thanks?"
" I'm... I should... I have a feeling this might be messy. And disgusting. Messy and disgusting and undoubtedly fatal. I should probably go outside."
"Aw. That's sweet."
"Don't mention it. By the way, you, uh, your face is kind of, um, green."
"What? No. Fuck. Really?"
The counter-lady looked at her reflection in the deli case.
"Damn it all!"
"I feel... funny."
"I would imagine that's ow the ow ow imminent doom."
"Yeah," he said, "more than likely."
Bartholomew looked at the counter-lady.
The counter-lady looked at Bartholomew.
Bartholomew looked outside.
"I'm... I'm gonna head out now, I guess. Into the… parking lot. I'm going to walk outside into the parking lot and... explode."
"Yeah, that's... that's, I don't know... something."
"You're upset you got bagel lodged in your face, aren't you?"
"I'm not thrilled."
Bartholomew and the counter-lady stood silently, staring at one another across the empty deli. Green and orange splotches radiated from their bodies, dancing across the walls and meats and cheeses like drunken, oddly-colored, ghostly teenagers at a highly disturbing, yet unforgettable, prom.
"Are you going to be… well, no, I guess you…" stammered Bartholomew. "But, uh, how… uh… Is there any… um… What… are you going to do with your… couple minutes?"
"Murder my ex-boyfriend, probably. He works in the video store on the other side of the strip mall."
"Oh. I really wasn't expecting that."
"There's a good chance I may just cry uncontrollably instead."
"That… that might be better."
"Maybe. He is an asshole, though."
"All right, but I don't think…"
"Dude, some of the shit he pulled…"
"What could be worth killing him?"
"Well, I had this cat, and he… he…" the woman trailed off.
"What?"
"It's a long story."
"Oh, right. Right."
"Yeah."
If there had been crickets in the deli, they'd have chirped at precisely this instant. But there weren't any crickets. The deli was up to code.
"It… it was nice meeting you," said the young woman. "I guess."
"Yeah," said Bartholomew. "You too."
They looked at one another again. The delicatessen was bathed only in orange now.
Bartholomew took a deep breath.
"Right, well," he said. "Bye."
"Bye."
Bartholomew walked outside and exploded.
Eirik Gumeny has previously been published in Thieves Jargon, Defenestration, the backs of three bar napkins, and a desk, right up until the cleaning staff found the Windex anyway.