Prompt 10 – A Fruit You Dislike and Why
Rockmelon a fruit I deplore, I suffer in silence, buying but once a year. For my girls, you do anything for your offspring don’t you?
I spy the half cut glad wrapped melon at the green grocers, sat amongst the other somewhat dubious quality of half cut watermelon and honey dew. Face up, the sickly peach coloured flesh exposed daring me, I choose the freshest piece I can. I use my fingertips to transfer to my trolley, trying desperately to not let the juice run down my hands.
The centre of the melon exposed, sickly pale seeds in the centre cradled in what looks like phlegm, laughing at me. I try not to gag.
The melon does have some good points it can’t all be bad. Easy to prepare, carved into slices, the sharp knife glides through, the flesh gives easily. You can scoop and roll into balls, not dissimilar to and reminding me of eyeballs, a bit spongy. You could toss through a salad? Of course that would be an insult to all the other ingredients, don’t you think.
A fruit platter perhaps, I send the melon to detention, a side plate. It’s outer shell, thin, a pale avocado green in colour, yellow and burnt looking in places, probably, where it has rested on the ground while growing. Its outer shell covered in a fine raised firmly fastened vine, not dissimilar to a cheap-flocked wallpaper.
If left out to long the fruit loses its lustre, no longer shiny. Best-eaten cold straight from the fridge, the cold masks the smell. When warmed I can smell that manky claustrophobic sickly sweet smell of rotten fruit, left out, past it’s use by date.
I visualise melon stuck to the roof of my mouth, gagging as it slides down the back of my throat, on a dare. I snort; it slides back up my throat, confused, nowhere to go, making it’s way out through my nose, tears well in my eyes, now I can’t see.
I prod the remaining scraps of melon not fit for the plate, along with the leftovers, scraped with a knife, into the plastic bag, the juices flowing from the cutting board after it. I double wrap to ensure no juice escapes onto the bench, the bag promptly placed into the outside bin. Has no place in the home. I open all the windows, wait for the breeze to flow through, taking that manky smell with it, erased from my memory, at last I can breathe again.
I’m guessing I’m not a great fan of Rockmelon
Next week, your current relationship