the container

"that is not mine."

keisha said it without looking up from the microwave. she had one hand inside her sleeve and the other holding a plastic fork like it had been issued by the court. the container sat on the top shelf of the break room fridge, behind the milk, with a date written on its lid that was three days from now.

i checked the date twice. it was not a smudge. it had a day, a month, and the kind of confidence you get from lying to a calendar. the fridge made a click behind me. i told it to pick a side.

keisha said, "maybe somebody brought it early."

there were seventy-nine things in the fridge if you counted every sauce packet, loose carrot, lid without a matching box, and one wet napkin folded into a square. the container was number eighty, but i did not count it at first because it was already trying to become evidence.

i put on two gloves and moved the milk. the container was warm. this made the fridge innocent, which was worse. under it i found a receipt from tomorrow, printed in the same thin ink as the date. it listed one container, no food, and a charge for refrigeration.

i took it to the manager. the manager took one look and said, "throw it out."

so i opened the lid.

inside was my missing black bow, folded around a burnt strawberry. the strawberry had been cut in half, and one half had teeth marks.

keisha left without taking her fork.

the fridge started running again, and somebody behind me said, "put that disgusting thing back before you make it everybody's problem."