The four of us walk along the pavement through the skyscraper-laden city, the sounds of countless cars roaring down the roads filling the air and drowning out everything else. 

“Why didn’t we just take a cab?” I ask, trying my hardest not to breathe too much. The stench of exhaust fumes is already overpowering; I didn’t need to inhale any more of it. 

“I told you, it’s an organic restaurant,” my friend’s wife, Sadie, says, walking ahead of us and leading the way in her fur coat and overly indulgent jewellery. She was also wearing one of those expensive new breathing masks. “They don’t allow anyone in unless they get there on foot or by bicycle.” 

“What’s a bicycle? Is that like a motorbike?” My wife asks in a very nasal voice. I turn to look at her and realise she’s blocking her nose with one hand. 

“Sort of,” my friend answers. “It’s like a motorbike, but it doesn’t use any fuel, and people bought them when they couldn’t afford a car. Only a few have them now, they’re sort of a collector’s item.” 

“I’ve got one,” Sadie chuckled. I rolled my eyes. Of course she had one. 

“Never seen you use it,” I responded. 

“Oh, it’s just for show. I’d never actually use it, it’s so impractical!” 

“Right.” 

We continue walking, the completely grey landscape quickly becoming tedious. It was easy to forget how dull reality was after indulging in the simulations of greenery in our apartment for so long. 

“Here we are!” She gestures towards a rather small building sandwiched between two megascrapers. It looked like one of those houses in the twenty-first century museums, and it thankfully added a splash of colour to the surroundings. A red, tiled roof and colourful brickwork, as well as a bright yellow door that stands wide open. A man stands at the door, a big, fake smile on his face and a tablet in his hand. “You two are going to love this.” 

“Looks expensive,” I remark, trying to get a glimpse inside the restaurant. 

“Oh, it’s my treat! Come, let’s get a seat.” 

We all walk to the door and the man greets us, swiftly escorting us inside and sitting us down at a table. It’s got a red and white checkered tablecloth, and the entirety of the inside is decorated with what looks like wooden furniture. 

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s real wood?” I turn back to look at Sadie, who’s looking between myself and my wife excitedly. 

“It can’t be, right?” 

She chuckled, sitting back in her chair and stretching her arms out. “Everything in this place is real, Reece.” 

I frown, tilting my head slightly. “The last tree went extinct thirty eight years ago.” 

“The last tree in the wild,” she clarified, waggling her finger. “The owners have a private wood farm.” 

I sigh. “Of course they do.” 

“Don’t be so modest, hun,” my friend says, gently elbowing Sadie. 

“Oh, fine,” she whines, laughing. “My parents own the restaurant.” 

“You don’t say,” my wife responds, still looking around the room and admiring the decor. “I haven’t seen so much… natural-ness in my life!” 

“Well, I’m glad you can appreciate it! It’s nice to have people here who are excited by it for a change, I usually only take people who are more accustomed to this kind of decor.” My eye twitches a little, but I keep my mouth shut. “Oh, and don’t worry about ordering. I’ll get us the best on the menu.” 

True to her word, she has a private discussion with the waiter, and we talk amongst ourselves for some time before he comes back, a large platter in his hands. He places it down on the table and Sadie practically explodes with excitement, a grin lighting up her face. I stare at the platter before us. It’s… empty. There’s barely any food on it at all. 

“Here we have our famous Produce Platter,” the waiter explains, gesturing to one of the platters. “Four slices of juicy Roma tomato, two snow pea pods, and a full cob of corn.” 

I stare at the three tiny servings of food. This is supposed to be dinner? For the four of us? 

“Thank you so much!” Sadie exclaims, using her cutlery to place a slice of tomato on her plate as the waiter bows and walks away. “Come on, dig in!” 

“Not much to dig into,” I mutter, retrieving two slices of the tomato and placing one on my wife’s plate. I stare at my own for a short while. 

It’s just a tomato. We can get those from the machine at home. 

“Try it!” Sadie says, her mouth full of tomato. 

I let out a sigh, cutting the tomato slice in half and putting one of the halves into my mouth. 

My eyes must’ve bulged out of their sockets. The flavour was so intense, so incredibly powerful. It was way, way too much, overloading my tastebuds. 

I immediately spit the tomato out onto the plate, coughing and gagging. Sadie’s laughing across from me, and I rub my tongue on a napkin frantically. 

“What the fuck?” I splutter, gulping down my glass of water. 

“I totally forgot, organic stuff must be so strong for you guys! Maybe take smaller bites?” 

I glare at her after I’m done flailing, and cut off a miniscule bite of the tomato this time. I pick it up with my fork and slide it into my mouth. 

This time, the flavour isn’t anywhere near as strong. 

But it’s unbelievably good. 

The flavour of this tiny sliver of tomato is just incredible. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. It’s like the taste of a regular tomato, but somehow, it just tastes so much better. 

“What the hell did they put on this?” My wife asks, as if she took the words straight out of my mouth. 

“Nothing!” Sadie says, already finished with her slice. “That’s how tomatoes used to taste centuries ago!” 

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, eagerly cutting another sliver off and devouring it. 

My wife and I spend the rest of the meal in silence, marvelling at the incredible taste of everything on that platter. There comes a point where I go to get more food, and I feel my heart drop as I realise there’s none left. 

“That’s it?” I ask, staring at the empty platter. A few drops of tomato juice glisten on the otherwise spotless silver. 

“That’s a full meal here,” Sadie says, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “Quality over quantity!” 

I nod slowly, but I’m not really listening to her. My tongue keeps searching for traces of that flavour, that impossible sweetness of the corn, the crisp freshness of the pea pod. It’s already fading from my memory, like trying to hold onto a dream after waking. 

The waiter returns with the bill, and I catch a glimpse of the number before Sadie snatches it away.  

It’s more than our monthly mortgage cost.  

For three vegetables. 

“Shall we?” My friend stands, helping Sadie with her fur coat. 

We follow them outside, and the transition hits me like a physical blow. The acrid smell of exhaust fumes floods back, so thick I can taste it coating my tongue, erasing any lingering hint of tomato. Every surface is synthetic. Every breath is poison. Every person we pass has that same grey pallor, that same hurried walk to get back inside, back to their filtered air and artificial environments. Everything is so… grey. 

Why does it feel worse than before?