“Deb had made a salad for dinner the night he brought home that grocery-store harvest, a bright and colorful meal that looked like a picture and made Greg’s heart sink to look at it. The grape tomatoes burst in his mouth, his tongue dodging the slime; the shredded carrots tasted like earth; the radishes released a fume that snaked from his throat up to his nose and made him want to hack the mouthful onto his plate. So that’s what radishes tasted like. Now he knew. They rotted at the bottom of the crisper drawer, they and the lettuce heads and the carrots in their peels. Deb pulled them out a month later, floating in their bags in what looked like lake water, scrubbed the crisper in the sink so it was clean and empty and ready for more bacon.
He guessed that’s what sobriety felt like to GJ: A lurid, hopeful salad that he could not even pretend to choke down.”