first person

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There’s nothing more disappointing than a garbage watermelon.

I hold my breath a little every time I slice into a new one. If the inside is not pink enough, it has no flavour. If it’s too pink, it’s overripe and squishy. And then you have this giant ball of pink water that only the flies want to feast on.

But when it’s just right, it’s a marvel. It’s the perfect mix of cold and sweet and crunch. It’s the feeling I get when I’m listening to waves on the beach, when that Aperol spritz with giant ice cubes lands in front of me on a patio with a view, when I get a taste of nocciola gelato after months of winter.

It breathes summer. Nevermind

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