My Pineapple Roommate
The only scent a rose may come to envy is a pineapple on the vine in the east facing window of a 3rd floor apartment. Confident and exotic, the plant announces itself before being seen, owns its space, and was the first plant I ever purchased a weapon to defend myself, my skin, the corner of my eyes. I expected nothing from the supermarket pineapple crown I twisted off and dropped in a glass of water. It soon produced translucent threads, little fishing lines reaching through