Writing Prompt: Raspberry

Because my brain refuses to cooperate and is failing to give me a decent idea for a blog post today, I’m grabbing a writing prompt from The Write Prompts. And since I’m technically writing this on Thursday, not Friday (because I have lots of work on Friday), I’m using the one word Thursday prompt for this week, which happens to be Raspberry. Well, here goes…

Raspberry

English: Raspberries Français : Framboises Deu...
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“What do you mean you don’t like raspberries?”

This isn’t the first time I had this conversation. Makes me wonder what it is about my face that makes me look like I’m the type who’s supposed to LOVE that damned fruit. Folks don’t consider it a big deal when someone else declares their distaste for the raspberry; but for some reason, they act like I have no right to dislike it.

The only way to handle this sort of situation is to pretend it’s not happening and that Devon isn’t trying to shove a small box of chocolate-covered raspberries at me.

“I don’t know what to wear for my brother’s wedding,” I murmur as I take a sip of my Scottish breakfast tea. “The bride insists that all the female guests wear either pantsuits or micro-mini shorts. I look good in neither.”

“I can’t believe that you don’t like rasperries.”

Goddammit.

“The worst part is that the wedding colors are turquoise and tangerine. I can’t see how that would look good in pantsuit form. But I guess that’s the point. That’s the horrible, terrible point.”

“How can you NOT like raspberries?”

I will not pour my tea over his head. I will NOT waste delicious tea on this guy.

“Screw it. I’m wearing a cute tangerine dress at the wedding. Essie’s just going to have to kiss my-”

“Dolly. SERIOUSLY. How can you dislike raspberries? They’re delicious! And you love fruits!”

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I grab the box from my room mate and shove five of the sweets into my mouth.

“Prepare to be amazed,” I say.

Ten minutes later, I finish throwing up everything I’ve eaten over the last hour…all over his chinos. I wash the taste of stomach acids from my mouth with my Scottish tea.

“You could have just said,” Devon grumbles.

“You could have just left it alone,” I reply.

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