Fresh Watermelon Salad

and fiction

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I hope you enjoy my latest fiction piece, “Not So Much Now/Two Bites,” and this salad for dinner inspired by @chloecleroux and my obsessive love of cheese.

Not So Much Now/Two Bites

“We just need to be leaving by ten so we can make our reservation.”

The air whispered over her face, rustling her hair and her gauzy sleeves and her eyelashes.

His fork scraped against his plate.

The geraniums in front of her hung in a basket on the iron railing. It was filled with that brown fibrous wrap that always filled flower baskets.

“What’s that called?” she asked.

“What?”

“The brown stuff.”

“What brown stuff?”

“The stuff there?” she pointed at the basket with her left hand. With her right she picked up her coffee.

“Oh, it’s coconut.”

She placed her coffee back on the white cloth table. She picked up the ceramic pitcher – it was the same color as the cream inside – and sloshed a few drops into her cup. She stirred and looked at him.

“It’s coconut?’

“Yeah, the fibers from the outside of a coconut.”

“So, I shouldn’t add it to my coffee.”

“No, no you should not.” He grinned.

She picked up her cup again.

He put his fork down on his plate and leaned back in his chair. A black iron chair that matched the railing. A car and a couple chattered by on the cobbles across the railing.

“You’ve got two bites left.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re not going anywhere.” He brought his arms off his chest and back behind his head. He took a deep breath.

She grinned.

The bell in the tower two blocks down chimed.

She took a long draw from her coffee cup and pushed her chair back.

He reached his arm out to hers, grasping her wrist more gently than the breeze.

She paused, half-crouched out of her chair. “It’s ten.”

“I know.”

“So, we’ve got to get to our reservation.”

“It’s not going anywhere.”

“Only it is.”

“What?” he asked.

“It’s a reservation. If we’re not there, they’ll give it away.”

“So we’ll get another one.”

She settled back in her chair. She picked up her coffee cup with one hand and placed the fingers of her other hand on her lips.

“What?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your grin,” he said.

“What grin?”

“You’re not hiding it.”

She lowered her fingers from her lips and wrapped them around the cup, bringing it comfortingly up to her chest and bringing the corners of her mouth conspiratorially up toward her ears.

“I’m just remembering yesterday.”