Relish

His key on the counter and five open things of mayonnaise in my fridge.

I count them out:

One, two, three, four, five different kinds of mayo and not a Kewpie

or even Hellmann’s among them -oh no!

We’re talking five varieties of store-brand and budget mayos.

Five!

Glass jars,

squeezy bottles,

one aluminum tube wrung out like toothpaste

and a tub

-each one less empty than the last

(but then he never was very good at finishing things off).

It used to be different here:

The fridge door lined with pesto and miso

Cholula, sriracha, harissa and ranch,

real wasabi (no Trojan horseradish for me)

tahini, Tajin and black truffle Dijon,

gochujang and Lao Gan Ma.

I was the kind of girl who’d whip up an aioli on a whim,

Can chutney from scratch,

Mash sticky hot honey into soft Kerrygold,

And I let this guy bring margarine to the table?

FIVE OPEN THINGS OF BUDGET MAYO IN MY FRIDGE, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

This man who never –not once– made me a goddamn sandwich.

How blind had I been to this slow, bland takeover?

To this goopy graveyard where my condiments once lived?

I toss my sad, white tally in the trash

-his crusty white legacy not cutting the mustard.

I find five cloves of garlic, make a quick confit,

and eat it by the spoonful.