The Potato

Feb 10  |  Alex Antiuk

ā€œLook! Itā€™s me!ā€ Case interjected, as I stood staring at The Potato. I released the squint in my eyes and turned towards her. She held a slight, disconcerting smile.

Case didnā€™t look anything like The Potato. Her arms werenā€™t grey, nor was one of them ridden with an unfortunate, cancerous growth for a hand. (But it was reminiscent of the livid hand Case always waved at me when Iā€™d put off doing the dishes.)

Case also didnā€™t have a long, darkly rouged, rectangular neck. Hers was, I think, a lovely neck. I canā€™t say that for certain as I, like many others – I imagine – donā€™t put much stock in necks.

But after noticing my eyes held the same, repressed glare they always did whenever Case informed me weā€™d be having pasta for dinner, Case added, ā€œWhatā€¦ You donā€™t see it?ā€ I suddenly remembered Caseā€™s announcement that morning – ā€œBLUE-PLATES-ONLY!ā€

The Blue Plates are peculiarly sized. They are only large enough for a single sandwich, and it absolutely cannot be open-faced – rendering them useless for a full meal.

But as I attempted to reply, ā€œStop-It! Youā€™re…ā€ I noticed Case had moved, and now stood side by side with The Potato.

They were completely different women. One of them didnā€™t even have eyes – although they both did have a slight row of hair on their upper lips. But in the harsh gallery light, I unexpectedly realized they both held one identical disbelief.

I didnā€™t have a chance to confirm this with The Potato, but I actually spoke to Case about it earlier that morning.

Upon hearing Caseā€™s declaration, I hopped up in bed. After wiping my eyes I noticed Caseā€™s eyeballs were almost popping out of their sockets. Strands of her pin-straight hair were flying in all directions – a typical combination when one isnā€™t wearing pants, only their oversized NPR t-shirt.

But what began to percolate through my mind were Caseā€™s imperfections.

Case was built differently, and the longer my eyes lingered on her the more struck I became. The woman who had awoken me was not glimmering in the morning light, nor was her breath particularly tasteful at that hour. But before I had the chance to ask what had inspired her to want to throw out our generous IKEA plate-bowls, I watched the words, ā€œYouā€™re beautifulā€ drip out of my mouth.

They were spoken with such pleasure, that when I repeated them in the gallery I immediately became worried The Potato would become jealous.

Thankfully – before I had time to see if The Potatoā€™s lone eyebrow was twitching in envy – Case added, ā€œYou knowā€¦ I donā€™t get this Joan Miro fellaā€™.ā€ And off we went, into the next room and towards one of those oversized, abstract paintings typically found on the cover of a coffee table book – that youā€™d forget about the moment the book transformed into a coaster.