Soft. Ajar and inviting: split me.
So I do, peeling back the bruised skin, slightly wrinkled like a wisened face, to reveal a colony of seeds. Two perfectly equal halves. I brush the entrails of one with my tongue, the tip exploring populations of tiny pods, like a hand emersed in a bag of kernels. They ripple beneath taste–buds, greeting them with the pleasure of reunited lovers.
Eagre teeth sink slowly into the mustard hyde and crunch the stiff seeds, cracking so many shells and severing fibre sinews.
I eat one half at a time.
One of them is held in the pergatory of my plam, resisting the temptation to squeeze and spill the entrails over the lip of the halved skin. The half in my mouth is sugared kalamari, a bag of magic beans, a Romantic's heart, all swilled around and inbetween each tooth. What carniverous pleasure. I cannot wait to eat the vulnerable Other.