A Real Grape

The house grew dim, so I hopped down from the windowsill and followed a sweet, rich scent into the dining room. There was a low ceramic bowl resting upon the dark table, piled high with real green apples and dark purple grapes. I nestled right up against the edge of the smooth bowl, holding my painted cluster close. Reaching out with my free hand, I gently touched a real grape. It felt cool, plump, and slightly dewy under my fingertips, not dry or carved like mine at all. I leaned back into the shadows and stayed there, enjoying the sweet perfume of the night harvest.