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It could have warned me to pay with my debit rather than credit card long before I wrestled with three separate machines and their burly attendant. My appointment wouldn’t have suffered the radio silence in my tardiness, and my delay wouldn’t have screamed so loudly as I ran into the office puffing my breath. It’s mealy flesh would have updated my arrival time. At minimum, those sour cells in Christmas flesh could have gifted me an Uber prior to finding my ears 50 songs deep with sunglasses above my forehead avoiding sunburn in this midday heat beating across the creased train platform. Would it have noticed my heart beat faster with the staccato transitioning of tracks underground? Would the bitten edges curl as fresh air was siphoned from the train car? Would it have winced if I stabbed my canine deep into its chest for another juicy nibble? It might simply have been gone an hour ago — leaping from my pruned hands in pursuit of rotting peacefully beneath the tail of a beefy rodent. Or would I gnaw at its sagging skin before it entertained the chance to cry for help and wave its severed stem? 

Instead, it rests face-down, prostrate in the cylindrical container on the top shelf of my fridge. In all its soreness, bitter enzymes might fester.