A Matter of Gravity

A pale honeydew melon was inching toward the lip of a tilted wooden display crate outside the corner grocer. Leaving round produce on an incline is how sidewalks end up paved with sticky pulp. I climbed onto the crate's weathered oak rim, braced my sneakers against a ridge of dry straw, and leaned both palms straight into the melon's flank. With one firm heave, I rolled it back into the hollow between two butternut squashes. I gave the rind a sharp rap with my knuckles just to be thorough. A dull thud—sour as vinegar, guaranteed. Still, even mediocre fruit doesn't deserve to crack open on public concrete.