Like violets drizzled in honey.

We had stopped the car, spread a blanket in a meadow. Fried chicken, biscuits, potato salad.

Howard chomped on a chicken wing, made a face.

“Everything tastes weird,” he said. “Kind of grassy.”

I took another bite. Nothing wrong with the chicken. It was mad hot. Sweat trickled down my cheek. Howard leaned over to lick it off.

“You should be salty,” he said, “but you’re not.”

He’d been complaining for a week and a half that food didn’t taste right.

I got creative. The trick was to find unusual combinations: Taco-flavored Oreos, candy canes dipped in gravy, yogurt-flavored potato chips, Snickers bars tucked inside pickles. Anything to jumpstart his taste buds.

“This too shall pass,” I said.

“Shakespeare?”

“The Bible.”

Howard laughed. His eyebrows scrunched together and I had to resist the urge to pull him on top of me.

“I Googled when things taste grassy,” he said. “It could be Parkinson’s. Or certain forms of cancer.”

I stopped chewing. If I lost Howard, I would lose myself.

I tore a clump of grass from the dirt, popped it in my mouth. Chewed.

He was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.

The grass was frog-green, earthy. I swallowed. This is what everything tastes like to him. If he could stand it, I would too.

He gathered me into his arms, burrowing his lips into the hollow of my neck. Torn clouds drifted above us.

It turned out to be an impacted molar, which an oral surgeon removed. Years later, after the divorce, after our kids had kids of their own, I thought about that day I’d eaten grass for him. How illogical I was. How very young. The hopeful taste of grass.

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Beth Sherman has had more than 150 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Tiny Molecules and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and the upcoming Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.