Mailbox Meat

i
Outside, in front of two o’ clock in the afternoon, I finish vomiting two dark meat portions of Kentucky Fried Chicken into a public mailbox. While rubbing stray acidic dribbles into the dark fabric of my shirt, I scrape together a meager apology in my head regarding the people whose letters and packages I’ve just destroyed. As the guilt neutralizes, I head towards the lights at the intersection and begin to slowly fish through my tote bag for something edible to mask the taste of my greasy insides. Several Bulk Barn receipts, a movie stub from ‘Sunshine,’ a route 7 bus schedu-
I am interrupted by the sound of decadent, symphonic music being made in unison from behind me. I hear the deposit flap on the mailbox rattle and shake recklessly in rhythm with the rest of the sound; the scent of microwaved vomit wafting freely to and fro between my nostrils and the dank postage. With my arched back making analytical faces at the mailbox, I begin to interpret the sounds emerging from within it. Eyes snapped shut; I visualize what I hear- a whole lot of snails on the snares I most definitely see, vampire bats on vocals and violin, and a single orangutan playing a xylophone with a spoon.
Naturally, in the midst of such engaging audible stimuli, I whip my head around in one swift and impulsive movement. As my feet shift, a single flash frame of my body being lowered down into the sun’s atmosphere in a strainer makes its appearance in my mind. Upon burping suddenly, remnants of clumped, scraggly chicken skin arrives in my mouth’s waiting room. The mailbox goes silent.

ii
Unexpectedly, I feel your elbow jabbing against my side through the cottony material of my tote bag. You rummage for a moment, and then begin to gradually climb out of my bag. I lower it to the ground as it heavies, expanding and accommodating to your lean and lanky appendages. You finally emerge; each leg sprawled out over either side of my bag with your bum hanging comfortably in between. You have rectangular blocks of herb tofu bound to each side of your face, held in place by a single strand of embroidery thread and a knot. With a furrowed brow, you hoist yourself up off the sidewalk, the multiplying vegetation between each square of concrete turning the curb into rubble. I watch nervously, as everything you touch begins to sprout and flourish into something green, with a respiratory system. Soon we’re sitting quietly, musing in a shaded plant kingdom over the healthy abruptness of your actions.
You’ve won a war of some kind. I’ve not exactly lost anything, but I feel much too timid and shy to indulge in celebratory berry eating as you do now. Your cheeks are raw and flecked with bloodied tofu - the letters and packages intact, resting peacefully on several lichen friendly rocks. You motion to place a baby snail on the nape my neck, pausing gleefully to show me its slime trail emblazoned between the A and the N in ‘VEGAN’ across your shirt.