Their diet mainly consisted of macaroni, potatoes, rice, canned vegetables, bread, and red meat, but she bought fruit juice in cans, and longed, from November until June, for vegetables, berries, melons, and the crunch of green things between her teeth.
The truck rattled across the dusty roads, pushed hard by the wind that moved soil from one barren pasture to the next, and the brown paper grocery sacks rattled in the seat beside her, not very many of them because her grocery budget had been smashed, yet again, but the hot checks he wrote when she wasn't looking.
The sacks contained boring foods and four rolls of cheap toilet paper and one item that she thought of over and over as she drove the eleven miles of dirt out to the camp.
Her new friend didn't have any houseplants and along with the cuttings she was rooting in jars as a gift, she had bought an avocado, one avocade, a whole dollar fifty for that one fruit, so that in the center of the crate of rooted houseplants she could place that seed, poked by toothpicks and its bottom resting in water.
When the cattleguard loomed, she ground the truck to a stop, rustled in the brown sacks until she came up with the black, ripe fruit, scored it around lengthwise with her pocket knife, twisted the halves apart, thwacked her knife blade into the exposed seed, twisting again until it lifted from the green meat.
She put the seed carefully back into one of the sacks and then stuffed the exotic flesh into her mouth, the taste sliding down her throat, tears of desire in her eyes.