My lips were aflame with the first bite. I’d sliced into it with such trepidation, the only sharp knife I had. It was a risk, one I was willing to take for the flavour I was about to receive.
The markets had been crowded that morning. As I swatted away the flies, I found the perfect one.
Handing over my hard-earned, I placed to in my tattered conference bag, in amongst the cheese and grapes.
We were home.
I sliced through you, removing your head, then your tough skin. Finally, I made slices and rough quarters.
I took that first bite, and the acid stung. Piercing my lips, the juices drawing blood.
My first pineapple of the summer.
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