"It's got no shelf life," Michael said. "So I can't sell them through the market."
"I don't care! It'll be gone by tomorrow night!"
"It's a baby . . .," he added, but my mind was already blank. I didn't hear the something-or-other kind of baby: I was already holding and smelling the small melon.
Surely, one of the orangest and muskiest cantaloupes I've ever eaten, tasting like summer -- sweet and sweaty, delicious and mildly disturbing in its earthiness, tasting of mold and rot and vigor.
Good thing my mother taught me to clean my plate since it wouldn't have kept anyway.
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