The Sad Watermelon

On a hot summer twilight, I was seized with an overwhelming craving for watermelon.

Come to think of it, I remembered that at a greengrocer in a corner of the now run-down shopping street near my home—one I used to go to often long ago—delicious-looking watermelons had been lined up.

My heart aflutter, I headed there for the first time in ages, and just as I was tapping the watermelons at the storefront to size them up, “You don’t have to tap them—they’re all sweet,” said the stoop-backed shopkeeper as he came shuffling over.

At those words, I felt a little lonely—that with the passing of time, the once-lively shopping street, and the shopkeeper whose back had been ramrod straight, and even the culture and customs, had all changed.

Back home, that the watermelon said to be sweet without tapping wasn’t all that sweet made my heart lonelier still.