By Savannah S. Miller

A can of cashews.

A can of cashews on the counter.

An open can of honey-roasted cashews on the counter, laughing at me. 

You stupid bitch, a cashew says. 

The cashews have a potty mouth.

“I’m not a stupid bitch.”

Are you sure? Have you looked in the mirror lately? The cashew is on a roll now. It’s not going to make him come back. 

“Don’t you think it could though?”

You dumb—

The cap goes back on the cashew can. 

My stomach growls in protest. It’s been three days, and it’s cranky. In the war between hunger and appetite, appetite is winning, but hunger is a sore loser. 

There’s some muffled mumbling from the cashew can. I keep the lid on. 

The cashews are the only thing in my home not suffering from rot and neglect. The food is moldy. The floor is covered in dirt. The windows grimed up to keep the light out. 

But cashews? Cashews are experts at survival. Maybe I could learn a thing or two from them.

“I’m not a stupid bitch.”

More muffled screams from the cashew can. 

He left three days ago. The day he left, I ate Cheerios for dinner. He walked out shortly after. On day two, a rat knocked down the Cheerios box, and it spilled on the floor. 

One day, I will clean it up. One day, I will mop the floor. One day, I will set the rat trap.

One day, I will make it to one day. 

One day feels nonexistent now.

“I’m not a stupid bitch.”

I repeat it like a mantra.

He left three days ago. He said he needed time. He said I was too good. 

He said his brain hurt.

But now my brain hurts.

“I’m not a stupid bitch.”

I gave him my all. He took it and left. 

I open the cashew can lid. Anything is better than silence.

He was a jerk to you anyway!

“He couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit!

“He was depressed—”

And you’re not a therapist! the cashew interrupts. I don’t care how mad at the world you get; you don’t say the things he said to you. You don’t forget your girlfriend exists. You don’t blame your stupid-ass, beautiful girlfriend for making you feel useless— 

I take the cashew and put it in my mouth. I want him silenced forever.

The sugar coats my tongue. It sits in my mouth. My teeth have forgotten how to work.

A cashew in my mouth.

A box of Cheerios on the floor. 

A brain that hurts.

Who was the useless one now?

There’s a mumbling from the cashew in my mouth. I imagine what he says.

You have more talent and brains in your middle finger than he has in his whole body.

That was probably true. 

The way he left shows he didn’t care about you. Who says that to someone they love?

That was definitely true.

You can’t die over a useless moment.

Was that all he was? A useless moment? There’s no way to tell without moving onto the next.

I bring my molars down on a martyr. Saliva seeps into his wounds.

A can of cashews on the counter.

An open can of honey-roasted cashews on the counter cheering me on.