Write about something: rotten.
I was scrounging through our tomatoes this morning in order to fill our latest restaurant order. At this time of year there tends to be a lot of split, overripe, and rotting tomatoes and this season is no different.
At least I was able to find the twenty pounds of heirlooms and ten pounds of beefsteak that had been requested.
Henri stepped into his apartment and froze, his keys dangling from his fingers mere inches away from their waiting hook. He sniffed the air gingerly, once again catching the scent of something distinctly unpleasant.
"What idiot left food out?" he asked himself. Or rather, he asked the bust of himself that decorated his entryway. The (overpaid) artist had captured him in fine form, a lit cigarette between his lips and a menacing gleam in his eyes. The statue was easily the most pleasant company he kept.
Moving reluctantly toward his kitchen, Henri studied his surroundings and was not pleased by what he saw. The cleaners had been scheduled to come three times during his two week absence but from the looks of things they'd only been twice.
"People are about to lose their jobs," he muttered, his cell phone already in hand.
But, as it turned out, there would be no need for him to make that call.
For when he arrived in his kitchen he found waiting for him on the floor, spelled out in large letters with rotting vegetables, the words We Quit.