Fruit, then Death

Cantaloupes are lovely orbs of pleasure and death, holding on to gilded softness until they are hurled at someone’s orbiting skull in the middle of a fight late at night in their apartment when the only thing in reach is the semi-softening fruit kept on the counter. (The knife block is several steps away, and something is needed more for the dramatic effect rather than a puncture wound in the pancreas). Listen to the thup that it makes as it hits the head right on the head; instead of cantaloupe bits spraying this way and that, it falls to the floor in perfect symmetry, simple halves flashing their orange flesh, dotted with mold. Their head will be fine; the cantaloupe, on the other hand, looks past its prime.