The knife was sharp, the melon's deep green rind firm and waxy beneath my hand.
From never again to head-over-heels in a breath, I gave my heart carelessly.
The blade found purchase and I pushed down into the soft red flesh.
Given my history, perhaps I should have looked beyond the angels in your eyes, whose beauty stunned me.
Slice number one: not quite halfway through.
Before I knew it, I was laughing.
Slice number two: almost there.
Next thing I knew, I was singing.
Slice number three: the melon slipped.
Taking me by the hand, you pulled me into a future as tempting and weightless as a prism's rainbow.
I drew my hand back in a flash, but not before a drop of red splashed into and mingled with the ruby juice on the counter.
With winter came the brittle cold, and that particular northern light that brings clarity and depth to all shades.
"Be careful, darling" my grandmother said, dabbing at the cut with a kitchen towel.
Recklessly, you gestured, and I watched my snow-white carpet give way, again, to the lurid darkness of your spilled wine.
"You must watch what you're doing," she warned, "or you'll hurt yourself."
(c) 2014, by Hannah Six