A car horn hit several times, its sound a call for patrons
to the dusty fruit stand on wheels. Their dad purchased one from the tumbled pile
– weighed out carefully on an ancient scale strapped to the hood – shook hands
and walked it to their house, pulling out a low table and legless chairs. He
split the watermelon down the middle, spinning it around a short knife, serving
it in wide wedges with forks and spoons, the daughters drinking the juice and
spilling it down their shirts, the second change of clothes for the day. The
sticky smile behind bright red lips, eyes squinted in the warmth of the sun, a
father laughing and getting ready to go. Their mother pushed them outside, down
the road, their eyes missing the leaving glance of their dad, headed to work.
No comments:
Post a Comment