In Watermelon Sugar

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Everyone knew about her thing for babies. How living things in miniature form made her stomach dance and her pupils dilate and her voice rise an octave. He, more than anyone, knew how to recognize the symptoms.
The first thing he noticed when she came bounding toward him was the glint in her eyes. Then came the voice.
“Look”, she cooed with her hand outstretched, “a baby watermelon”.


“Cool…how does it taste?”
“I don’t know. Let’s find out.”


“Here”, she said, offering him the small hemisphere “…you first.”
“What about the skin?”
“It’s OK…it’s edible.”
“…and the seeds?”
“Those too.”


She watched the unraveling through his eyes. The synaptic storm that waged behind them. She put a hand to her mouth to cover her smile as his face contorted.
“Uhm…it’s not watermelon.”
“What then…?”
“Not sure…something familiar…not watermelon.”
“Does it taste of summer? and sunshine? and fruit ripened on the vine?”
“Yes…all of those things…but not watermelon.”

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