Green Achers

It was only after he saw the mess in the kitchen, a spectacular Jackson Pollock of a shit and his dog in the middle of it when he remembered his ex-wife didn’t use paper towels. Or anything more serious than baking soda and Tom’s Tooth Paste. He still had the keys to the flat and only dropped in to get Chippers for his weekend custody visit. But now he had to spend the next half hour cleaning the place up with only a tea towel and a tiny squirt bottle filled with organic cider vinegar and tea tree oil. Sonofabitch.

Is this why she left him? Because of his ridiculous green proclivities? In the depths of her despair, somewhere between soaking chickpeas and attending bike rallies, she thought, give me a man who knows where the Vim is kept. Someone who can scrub out a sink with bleach, eat Cheez Whiz and slap on drug-store brand deodorant without a crisis of conscience. Sure the stainless steel water flasks and the Hessian shopping bags held a certain caché, but the washed-out milk bags? The reusable sanitary napkins? Just too much work. Sometimes she just wanted a banana that wasn’t Demeter certified.