To say that Tim hated olives wouldn’t quite be accurate.
You see, Tim didn’t hate anything. Tim had tried many times in his life to hate things. Places. People. Foods. TV game shows.
Each time the result was the same. While at first he found himself capable of conjuring up the venomous animosity that he believed others called hatred, as quickly as the feeling came he found the feeling would evaporate. No matter how strongly he attempted to hold onto the feeling, the second he took his focus off the emotion it would take off like a squirrel for the nearest tree.
Tim wanted to feel hatred. There had been no lack of bosses, exes, fathers, that Tim knew he should hate. Yet the energy required to maintain the hatred had always been too much for him to bother with.
Perhaps, Tim often thought, he would spend his entire life without really knowing what hatred truly felt like.
So, no, when Tim bit into the salad he had been craving for days—the salad he had fantasized so heavily that at one point during work he had found himself holding back dribbles of saliva just at the sight of a coworker’s green post-it note—and found the crispness of the greens and savoury croutons absolutely bulldozed off the flavor palette by an olive that had been hidden in a particularly voluptuous piece of lettuce, he did not feel hatred.
Did he feel remorse that his salad was now lost to those green-hued spheres of pure salty disgust? Of course.
Did he wish that olive trees had been lost along with the rest of ancient Greece? Certainly.
Did he feel an immediate urge to take his salad fork, storm the kitchen, find the chef responsible for tonight’s salads and see how many of those fucking olives he could hide in other salads with three metal prongs through his hand? Perhaps.
But this was not hatred.
It was a subtle difference to be sure. Yet, it was one Tim felt was well worth explaining to his blind date as he used her glass of white wine to get the blood out of his shirt.