Four days ago, I bought melons—one, a cantaloupe. A normal melon. Thick skin hard, dappled beige and grey. Once I spied a woman in produce who seemed smart about melons. She held each to her ear, thumped it with her knuckles. How did a honeyed, soft-not-mushy, orange essence speak? Secretly I hoped it would respond, Come in.
Having attempted this method never certain what to listen for, I did not knock rinds with my knuckles to unlock the riddle of ripeness, and my melon moved to my basket untested.
I also purchased a watermelon. At times I’ve suffered sour watermelon when biting into belligerent flesh, red juice spilling. I’ll toss out an entire melon absent only two or three bites, enduring those only to verify a bitter disappointment.
Once I asked a man working produce to choose. His arms disappeared to his elbows as he bent over and dug through the huge cardboard crate of lime-and-pine striped, bloated bodies thumping against each other.
“Try this one.”
He lifted it into my bent arms. It’s heavy as a small child, I thought. It must be drunk with sugar.
“This one is super sweet, then?”
“Maybe.”
Whenever I force my knife through thick, rude rind, to reach red and release a mouthful of sugary-sweet juice, my watermelon is dessert. Almost red and black licorice or M&Ms. Almost ice cream.
In the refrigerator I displaced cartons of unsweetened soy milk and giant jars of no-sugar applesauce. Made a space tall enough to hold this country-club-buffet size watermelon. The cantaloupe fit into the vegetable drawer. I closed the doors.
I would cut the melon tomorrow. Hold off sour possibilities.
***
Three days ago, it occurred to me where a cache of King Sooper’s grocery coupons lay hidden in the house. Usually, they escape with recycling or vanish with vital papers I often never find. I sifted out those I would use, and a coupon for Betty Crocker Mug Treats—cake microwaved in your coffee mug (I covet the Cinnamon Roll flavor!)—showed itself. Standing tall, I gripped a wad of discounts, and sporting a dumb grin, flipped through them like hundred-dollar bills, as saving money was a theme this month. Alas, one coupon had expired. My reading glasses snug, I studied stunted print and scrutinized the date on each. Sadly, there would be no Dole bagged Light Caesar Salad.
I had been playing Coupon Concentration 45 minutes or more. Exhausted, my body found the sofa cushions and sunk deep. Eating watermelon might have roused me.
Sweet or sour.
***
Two days ago, I managed to fix my hair, apply makeup. I held out my hands then gazed at my feet—split nails and chipped, red polish. Dry cuticles rough and dangling. All twenty nails troubled. They had muddied my mood for weeks. A visit to the nail salon—my consummate therapy. (I’m told I’m high maintenance.)
The pedicure specialist toiled two times longer than normal. She drew my feet from hot, bubbling froth and fought my cuticles. They were tenacious. When my cell announced I had missed a Zoom chat with two, true, faraway friends, I leaned into the massaging chair and played with controls. Roll. Knead. Percussion. My body thudded, bumped. Quaked. Pulsated. Body wholly beaten up by the time the technician left her little seat at my feet.
I wondered which decision was smart: time rejuvenating my toes and fingers or Zooming with friends? Inhaling boozy polish, I glanced at my delicious, ChaChing Cherry fingernails and matching, tidy toes, and my tight chest relaxed.
***
Yesterday as I sat at my computer my focus slippery, I envisioned slicing the watermelon. Only it remained whole and on the shelf in the fridge. Was it too much trouble to get the knife?
Well.
Yes.
Instead, I drove to Walgreens. A dangerous outing. While a watermelon’s sugar satisfies some needs, it takes serious sugar to appease a troubled brain. I deserve this, ran through my head. Then I thought, for no reason whatsoever.
I stood in the candy aisle, and I located the shiny-black, Australian licorice. It was imperative to return with black and red. I gripped the raspberry package—for equilibrium. My troubled brain, my rules.
No matter the next two days my bowels would suffer.
***
Sometime after midnight, my little dog and I fell asleep. Her lick, lick, lick, lick woke me to sopping pajama bottoms. Dog drool drenched my blanket, sheets, and mattress pad. Her dog-Prozac had failed her.
My antidepressants weren’t working either.
The cantaloupe sat untouched in the vegetable drawer, dappled rind chilled. But smaller than the watermelon, far easier to pierce with a knife and slice.
Judith Sara Gelt completed a gratifying, 40-year teaching career in Denver before pursuing her passion for writing. Her memoir, Reckless Steps Toward Sanity (winner of the High Plains Book award), was published by the University of New Mexico Press in 2019—three years short of her 70th birthday. While that narrative was written with a traditional structure, she now plays in nonfiction-hybrid and experimental writing to share her truths about life as an old(er) woman. You can find her work in Iron Horse Literary Review, Nashville Review, Superstition Review, Broad Street Magazine, Portland Review, and more. She is a member of Denver’s Lighthouse Writers Workshop.
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