Poured out, they clink like ice cubes against the china bowl, globes of deep maroon, sparkling with frost. I use the same pair of bamboo chopsticks, tips tinted pale indigo with the juice of countless cherries and blueberries. I tweezer them one by one into my mouth. Cold. They crunch between my teeth. Sweet. The juice melts across my tongue. The day’s bright heat is outside; I am inside in the shady cool, and the cherries are melting inside me.
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