She broke open a favourite fruit of the season: custard apple. Its rough, greenish-black exterior looking like a cell-diagram given to us for drawing rehearsals back in high school for Botany classes. Its coagulated, messy interior. Some were messy, some popped out like eyes covered with phlegm-coloured flesh and sat inside safely until they were carefully opened.
Eating this fruit is a painstakingly pleasurable task- the niceness of the fruit is realised only when it is put into the mouth, and sucked, suavely balancing the seed and its yummy flesh. Very little flesh gets into the tongue though, most of the time. Quite a slimy indulgence it is: unable to enjoy it, in its fullness- yet there is a stealthily, irresistible inquisitiveness associated with custard dearest. She sat with a fork or a spoon and relished the fruit of the season. She ate it so often that, she had mastered the art of eating it! She cupped her hands and held the fruit and dug deep, sucked and licked the flesh up. She ate up all the coagulated mess and spat out its black seeds. Before, she could discard the peel, she would look into it, one last time, and scrape the remains out, and experience child-like delight. Her fruity meal is complete, like how words flow out of mind, and heart and a piece of writing is extrapolated.