Chocolates

She offered to share her chocolates with me
as we sat in the frayed webbing of her rusted lawn chairs
on one of the last warm evenings
of what had been an unseasonably cool summer.
I didn’t know which piece to take
because I was afraid of getting one I wouldn’t like,
but having to eat it anyway,
just to be nice.
Not that it mattered,
because all the good pieces were already gone.
She had broken them open
and left the nasty ones
with their gooey pink insides
lying scattered about the box.
So I politely declined.