At my grandmother’s house, the slices were always too big. I covered mine with salt and filled my mouth with large bites. If we got seeds in our mouths we tried to spit them across the table at one another. They ended slimy on my chin.

In the drive-through, when I behaved, my mother would ask the woman for a sucker. They came in lots of flavors; I liked them all but one. Root beer, cherry, lemon and cream soda. Anything but watermelon. If the lady at the bank gave me a watermelon I would stick it in my pocket because it tasted like headaches.

That night when I picked him up we decided on a picnic. Summer and fresh, ripe watermelon. They were on sale, but I don’t remember how much. We bought some plates and a knife. The checkout lady offered us a bag but he wanted to carry it himself.

We cut it up into halves, both of us knowing what to expect. I left the plates in the car. It was cold for summer. He was always the first to undress. Gathering the meat in our hands we covered ourselves. Seeds stuck to the hairs on his chin.

He said it tasted better this way. I asked him to let go because I was getting sore. In the light I saw his back was dripping red. We huddled close when the wind blew and bit our skin. He wanted to feel me inside of him. I told him the watermelon would give me a headache.

An empty rind resembles a smile. I stood in the shower thinking this thought, my thighs and stomach sticky. Remembering and trying to wash it away. The hot water felt like scratching. When I finished, my body was red.

Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. No feeling can be relied upon to last in its full intensity, or even last at all.