Well, I've spent a lot of time in my garden lately keeping an eye on my watermelon. Kinfolk have whispered questions about whether I've been sitting out there watching it ripen or watching it rot. The fruit didn't have the courage to volunteer clues to the answer and sat in solitary resistance to my prodding.
I finally mustered the nerve to show up the naysayers. Marching out to my small plot with knife in hand, severed the melon from the vine. It was a crime of passion. I immediately felt remorseful and wallowed in the what-ifs of what I had done. Regret moaned a sad song in my soul. But the deed was done, so I hauled the harvest inside and hid it in the crisper.
In the evening, I gathered my family in the kitchen and confessed what I had done. I plead my case:
Children eagerly crowded around. The dense interior of the watermelon's inner sanctum remained a mystery. I would have to violate its integrity (if it had any) again:
It was not enough to just expose its red flesh. Hands greedily reached for it. Mouths salivated. We would quickly know the answer to the unkind speculation made about my gardening habits. Anticipation met anguish:
The worst of it was accidentally edited by an inept camera operator. It was a blessing. He prodded for a re-taste so he could do a re-take. No one wanted seconds:
The seeds of despair are all that remain.