The Forgotten Peel

The banana peel was an anathema to her.

It triggered something deep and inexplicable, made worse by where it appeared: on the dining table, on the living room table, on the floor near the rocking chair in the living room, or the kitchen granite. Blackened by air, oxidised, and curling at the edges, it attracted fruit flies as it rotted on the dining table or somewhere in the kitchen or the living room. 

She never understood why taking those two extra steps to the dustbin was so hard, why this simple act was avoided and neglected, and why the banana peel, so harmless, was treated with such disregard. Was it love for the fruit or disdain for the ritual of cleaning up?

Her pleas, spoken gently, sometimes exasperated, had been heard many times, yet the peel reappeared like clockwork. She couldn’t decide what hurt more: the repetition or the possibility that it was intentional. A trigger dangled like bait, knowing it would provoke her. Or was it simply the absent-mindedness of an ageing mind? Or perhaps a deeper lack—of etiquette, of the kind of conditioning that comes from childhood and no amount of exposure to external world, takes it away.

She had been taught that everything had its place and belonged in its place, that order was sacred, and that cleanliness wasn’t just about hygiene but also about respect for home, people, and space. The banana peel violated that order. 

It reminded her of decay. Of neglect. Of being unseen.

The peel jarred her world like an ink spatter on a white wall. Slimy, slippery, insignificant yet piercing, it was never just a peel. It was a reminder of things left undone, of emotions disregarded, of chaos in place of care.

And every time she saw it, something inside her curled like the browning edges of that peel.