#120
It was late June. Here we are sitting outside under one of the trees. I think I know the species, I’m an armchair arborist.
Me: this is a ficus. Good for shade.
Her: I see.
She wasn’t convinced, or, actually, she was more focused on the bowl of cherries. They were glistening red—farmer’s market purchase.
Her: want to see my trick?
Me: you have more than one?
She smiled and popped one of them into her mouth, snapping off the stem, then, spitting the seed as far as she could.
Her: now watch.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I had no idea what she was doing as she slid the stem between her lips.
Ten seconds later -
Her: voila!
Me: that’s ridiculous.
Her: you’re just mad because you can’t do it.
It was true, I couldn’t.
Me: the entire thing is rigged.
Her: always in my favor.
Later, only the rotten ones remained. We passed out, asleep under the ficus, on the blanket she brought, hands touching, waiting to wake up.