Home: Part 22

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

February 1975 

Shannon and I had hiked to a clearing along the river. She’d packed a picnic lunch, and as we sat in the shade of cottonwood trees that grew along the levee, she handed me what seemed to be a piece of fruit. “You ever had one of these?” 

"No,” I said. “What is it?” 

Pomegranate.” She took it from my hand. “I’ve got to cut it.” The knife she used had a curved blade, and she sliced through the pomegranate’s skin, then pulled it away to expose the seeds. 

"You sure that’s edible?” I asked. 

She had removed the white pulp and was using her finger to force the seeds into a bowl she’d set in the grass. Her fingertips were quickly stained a dark red. “Taste.” She gathered several seeds and set them on my tongue.

 Interesting,” I said. 

“Good, though, right?” 

“I’m working on that.” I watched her remove the remainder of the seeds. She picked flakes of pulp from the bowl, then used a plastic spoon to eat as though she were enjoying breakfast cereal. 

“Open your mouth,” she said. She fed me with the spoon, and as I chewed I couldn’t quite tell if the seeds were sweet or sour. “Better?"

I nodded. “A bit.” 

“I love these things.” 

“Kind of messy, aren’t they?” 

She sucked on her fingertips, though they remained red. “How are my teeth?” She grinned at me. 

“Red,” I said. “Mine?” 

She kissed me and ran the tip of her tongue along my front teeth. “They even taste red.” She ate the remaining seeds and lay on her back. “Have you ever thought that some days are just meant to be good?” 

I lay next to her. Our shoulders were touching, and I stared up through the cottonwoods to where a few clouds had formed. “I think that most days are meant to be good,” I said. “Sometimes, though, they just kind of turn crossways.” 

She seemed to think about that. “I don’t know. I’ve wondered if we’re simply given some good days, some bad ones.” 

“Predetermined.” 

She pushed closer to me. “Yeah. Something like that. I’ve had days that started out badly, days I couldn’t change no matter how hard I tried.” 

“You’re getting a bit deep for me, Shannon.” And she was, too—I’d spent a lifetime avoiding conversations of any real consequence with most people. 

“Just baring my soul,” she said. She laughed and turned onto her side to face me. “Or part of it, at least.” 

 I looked up to her face. “Your teeth are still red. You look like some kind of demon when you smile.” 

“Maybe I am a demon.” She rubbed her teeth with her forefinger. “I should have brought a toothbrush with me.” 

 “You after my soul?” I asked. 

“I’m not the devil. Just a minor demon.” 

“A beautiful one.” “I am?” 

“You are. You’re one beautiful demon.” 

“And I’m yours, right?” 

 “All mine,” I said. She laid her head on my chest as if listening for the beating of my heart.