Pickle Cat

I went in as a cucumber. Nobody warned me about the vinegar, the salt, the dill sitting in there like it had been paid to watch. Three weeks in the dark and something changed that does not change back.

Now I am firm. I am sour. I hold my shape under pressure in a way I simply did not before, and the softness everyone liked about me is somewhere at the bottom of that jar.

They stab me with a fork and lift me out and act surprised that I am staring back. This is what the brine does. This is what it was always going to do.