Maybe it’s the best melon of the summer.
Earlier, at a new market, a different one than our usual market, I bought the melon, three handfuls of colorful small tomatoes, a squash, a bag of green beans, three onions, a clove of purple garlic, and six late summer peaches, so juicy there is no utensil delicate enough, so just use your fingers. The woman farmer wore pink bicycle shorts, her husband wore his chore hat, their kids ran around the baseball diamond behind the market. The dog sat at my feet until he saw the woman with the croissant.
Here, at home.
Me: It’s easy to eat only plants this time of year.
The melon was open on the counter, the smell had seeped into the corner of the kitchen and was blowing into the living room, the bedroom with its sweet, earthy orange scent.
Me: Even cheese, isn’t it really plants? I mean, if the cows or goats or sheep eat mostly plants?
Her: Now there’s an argument I’ve never heard.
The dog likes melon just about as much as I do, and he waits with his head in my lap, one eye on the Inca doves in the yard. I slide a piece over to him, too big to chomp immediately, so he takes it to his spot in the grass to mull over, lick, eat.
Later, we take a nap under the ceiling fan and let the heat of the afternoon seep out of us like a couple of Mediterraneans. The dog on the cool stone floor at our feet. The scent of the melon is dissipating. The rattle of the Inca doves ceases, the heat keeps them sheltered in the citrus trees out back. A few clouds roll in and out, shade moves across the house, the window.
After I wake up, after we wake up, after our minds are cleared and we’ve dreamt afternoon dreams, I’ll make coffee and sit outside with a book - my feet in the sun, the sunglasses with green lenses tinting life.
Me: It’s not over yet, is it?
Her: Not even close.
This reminds me of a summer in France and the most delicious cavaillon melons.