All The Right Words
Joe Granato
Joseph Granato Short Fiction All The Right Words Em cradled the space-like vessel in her hands, admiring each exceptional brown egg through the plastic. They sat in rows, suspended in their eco-friendly carton. Turning it in her narrow hands to reveal the back label, she began to read allowed. “Our Organic farming methods include excellent care for our hens and their health.” Tom writes copy for organic food labels. Or as he calls them, pastoral narratives in which farm animals live much like they did in the books we read as children. Only…now we want to eat them. She continued reading in conviction, “They live on sustainable American family farms, nesting and walking freely in a carefully tended, protected and constantly monitored environment.” “You really believe all of that stuff don’t you?” Tom said. “Shouldn’t I?” she said. “You know as well as I do, Em, most of these farms are just industrial feedlots. Free-range, grass-fed, walking freely? It’s all about words. And what we say. Someone created these damn words. They invented them to make some other person feel comfortable and now I have to use them,” he said, “Every day.” “Maybe,” she said, “but it made me buy them. Even if eggs are just, eggs. It’s the words that made me choose these specific ones. She turned around in the market isle and wrapped her arms around Tom. He limply reciprocated by placing his palm on her lower back. “Love you”, she said. The gears in Toms mind grinded as he noticed every instant oatmeal option on a shelf in the distance. It wasn’t often that the answer to such a state of emergency was…peaches and cream. “Huh? Oh, love you too babe,” he said. They continued to weave in and out of the expansive isles. Em swooned with admiration for every word she read. She wasn’t a sucker by any means. But rather, she appreciated the idea of labeling that could conjure an image of a simpler relationship, between humans and their food. It was something that people all over the world were doing, eating. But the sentimental words on each box, some of which were even Tom’s words, elevated this all to a more authentic experience. It made her feel like all of this was more than just, lunch. After checkout, Tom rustled through his grocery bag outside. Em just searched for his eyes. “Can I ask you a weird question,” she said. “If you don’t really believe in this stuff, why write all of these seemingly meaningful things?” “I guess it’s a comfort thing,” he said. “Customers want to feel like they are investing in something meaningful. If I want to keep this job I have to give them that
comfort, even if I don’t believe in it. Its what people want to hear, and if I don’t say it, well, they’ll just find someone who will.” Tom glanced at his watch. “Shit, I’m so late, “ he said. He quickly kissed Em on the cheek, and rushed away. He yelled back in her direction, “oh, love you.” Em hesitated before responding. To Tom, this, all of this, was just lunch.