There squat the Sumo- uncrated, prominent with rind and heft, swollen navel brightly exposed4 in the harsh Sound afternoon light, round and plump among the skinnier vegetables, a match in size for my bloating belly.
It had give when lifted, a clean brightness that held firm under the stall’s hard-edged green lighting.
This orange would split under my thumb, its rind come apart cleanly, stacked beside it, dark chocolate Chukar cherries wrapped in their theft‑resistant, biodegradable Kraft cartons,
I bought two— Sumos and Chukars— the oranges forced against each other, the cherries settling on top, cellophane, stone and heat cutting through the rind oil.
Past the food stalls, the blown-up postcard canvases stacked on crates, I found a bench facing away from the Soundless air.
I felt a shift in the slats— my wife’s windbreaker’s taking its place beside me.
An amethyst pendant in deep violet struck her zipper, its weight settling in the fold of her windbreaker.
I broke open a Sumo, swallowed it with a sharp sweetness I took alone. The second stayed in the bag.
She'd split it mid‑flight.
The cherries, still sealed, waited for the cruise ship, held for the days ahead in their boxed dark.
Leave a Reply