Watermelon

It's late and she can't sleep, she needs something to cut through the humidity. She goes to the kitchen and pulls a chef's knife out, stabbing into the center of a watermelon. The juice seeps slowly from cut as she goes, finding its way to the counter edge, dripping onto the floor. She slices off a cross section and breaks it in half, the juice is running down her fingers, and she goes outside.

The air is blue and the moon is orange, it is a fruity night. The humidity is like a character in the movie, she can feel the approaching showers. Barefoot, awake, she lies on the grass and dirt in her shirt and underwear, watermelon in each hand. She looks up at the stars, takes a bite. She only sees a few and begins to count. But the more she counts the more she sees, the more her eyes adjust. She lets the juice drip down her arm, down her chin and neck, across her face. She comes across a seed. There was a time when she thought swallowing a seed was as good as planting one in her stomach. Now they are few and far between. She laments the loss of the seeds. She used to spit them with her cousins. No more.

She feels the ground underneath. Her blood vessels move when she breathes. The sky is so bright there are so many stars. She eats the second piece and clutches the used rind in her hand. It is soft, wet, sticky. How many insects are gravitating to her at this very moment? How much juice has fastened her to the earth? How many seeds would she have to swallow before one started growing?

It is the last bite, she takes it. She feels a seed in between her teeth and swallows it. The first few drops of rain begin to fall. She leaves the rinds at her side and scoops a handful of dirt into her mouth. Sticky, warm, sweet, and alone, she opens her mouth and closes her eyes, and waits for the morning to come.