Watermellon Seeds

• She always thought watermelon was the best fruit. Juicy, red and porous like her tongue. Today was different. The scent of melon was strong, drifting through her balcony doors, but somehow not appealing. Almost nauseous yet familiar. Its cube-like shape ran like a Xerox through her morning brain and was dark and its seeds lacked purpose, at least for this day, as she pondered the reason why.

With a backpack in hand, she closed the door to her apartment, a rundown facade, which drew tourists on a low budget, but sat right on the beach. Her rental had a great view of the sea, yet the hallway was more like a dungeon, dark and dank as she gingerly felt her way along the wall passing whispers of shadows.  Suddenly all her senses were drawn to a smell both foul yet inviting her inquisitive nature. In the next instant she became aware that the closing of the door had ended all other sounds as if time had stopped or it had felt so. 

Her tightly laced purposeful boots now echoed loudly down the hall in support of her forward movement, perhaps scaring anything hiding in those same shadows. 

Maybe no one would see her today in her long coat and lost eyes but as she approached the lobby a loud man with a broad stature barged in. “Excuse me, mam, do you know where apt 9 is.” No, she answered, not wanting to get dragged any further into the conversation. After all, she was hungry. She turned slowly and swiftly like an octopus slinking past the man at the doorway. Her mind now solely on where she should eat for the day. The market was going today so perhaps she would swing by there. 

Today was a good day to watch the shadows on apartment walls. It was good for morale. Today was a good day to be bad, she thought. She streamed over to the bakery first just to cleanse her olfactories from the experience in the hallway earlier. She would have bought a croissant but it would only have reminded her of Copenhagen where she had had the best pastries ever. Tebirkes, hard to say easy to eat, came with a slice of light cheese and an egg on the side. The black poppy seeds, unlike the watermelon seeds, were charming and harmless, only providing more form to the soft toasty bread. She shook her head and moved along. 

It was a particularly busy day at the market and it reminded her of why she was there. not the market but her apartment, the town, her street. 

Like a steaming pot with busy molecules, the city had its bustle. It held her together with the way hands do around a cup of tea. She walked up to a stand – with her eyes looking down with a soft smile, she picked up and smelled deliciously fragrant natural soaps. She imagined her bathroom decorated with these adornments and who she would be with them. Distracted by a loud voice and what seemed to be a forming crowd, she navigated in that direction. 

In 1987, there were two types and ways to think. One believed that the notorious would outdo those that followed orders. The other, that freedom’s power to change was beyond what was possible. In harmony, they lived, clacking heels, taller orders,  where busy markets held their own. Though different in “size” and “stature” they stood side by side. The glimpse of violent people was surprising on this glorious day where besides chirping birds was easy sundown- was the longest ever seen. To see, she moved closer and closer to it- the black seeds swimming in the pool of lost eyes and hungry hearts. She wanted to be a part so she moved closer, placing herself in harm.