The only time I ever bought a pickle was in 1984. I’ve never liked salty food, green food, or bumpy food, so pickles have never appealed to me in the least. Whenever I order a burger or hero, I say, "No pickles, please," and I always double-check to make sure none are put on. Still, one day, in the spring of 1984, I was at a deli, waiting for the guy to make a sandwich for my girlfriend, when I heard my voice asking, "Can a have a pickle, please?"

"Just one?" said the guy.

"Yeah," I said, confused. Then I gave him the quarter or whatever it cost, and stood there holding my purchase, wondering why I had bought it and what I was going to do with it now.

When the sandwich was ready, I paid for it and left, carrying the paper bag in one hand and the pickle in the other. As I walked back to my girlfriend’s apartment, I felt the pickle juice seeping steadily into my skin. I fantasized about my blood turning alien-green, and I thought about how I’d have to scrub my hand thoroughly with scented soap and maybe even put lotion on it to cover the smell.

When I arrived at her place, my girlfriend looked at me funny. "Why are you holding that pickle?" she asked. "I thought you hated them."

"Yeah," I said. "Well, I wouldn’t say that I hate them; I’ve never eaten one actually. But I have no idea know why I bought it."

"Can I have it?" she asked.

"No," I answered firmly, surprising myself: I had meant to say, "I guess."

"Didn’t you get any lunch for yourself?" my girlfriend asked after I handed her the bag. "Or is that pickle it?"

"The pickle?" I said. "No. I was going to buy a slice of pizza on my way back, but I forgot all about it."

"What’s wrong with you today?" she said, going to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I sat down at the dining room table and placed the pickle in front of me. I thought I saw it move.

"Do pickles move?" I asked.

"Not usually," my girlfriend laughed.

"I didn’t think so," I said, not laughing. The pickle didn’t move again.

As I watched my girlfriend eat her sandwich, I found myself becoming hungrier and hungrier. Images of myself chomping on the pickle flashed through my mind, followed by horrible visions of my skin turning green and warts covering my nose. For a second I panicked and thought I had eaten it already, but I closed my eyes for a second, and when I reopened them, the pickle was still there, cold and wet, on the table.

I looked up and saw my girlfriend staring at me with concern and puzzlement, her mouth full of a bite of sandwich that she hadn’t yet chewed. In a sudden burst of clarity, I clapped my hands, jumped up, grabbed the pickle, and hurled it out the open window.

Then I sat down again, and sighed and said, "God, I hope that doesn’t ever happen again." My girlfriend’s composure gradually returned. She chewed and swallowed and concurred.

"Me too," she said.