Crikey, I miss summer. I miss it with the same ache I imagine for a Jane Austen heroine dreaming of her potential husband. And, like her, my tormented imaginings are not entirely realistic.
I slipped a juicy segment into my mouth. The juice exploded into my mouth: Honey-sweet and tart. Lush. My tongue and teeth popped the little sacks of liquid. In my mind’s eye a crowd of Californian surfers stood on their boards and cheered in unison. I glanced down to pick up another segment.