tangerine, shaped like a heart tapering to a point so fine it tickles my
palm. The skin is smooth and slightly hard – it is not yet ripe, but that is
the best time to savor it.
He peers at it doubtfully. “What is this?”
“The memory of a first love.” I cradle the delicate thing in my
hands. “Nothing is as sweet as a first love. She fills your thoughts and
consumes your every waking moment, and when you go to sleep, you
dance with her in your dreams. When she leaves, her laughter remains
beating inside your skull until she returns again. In warm summers, her
skin cools you on the bed. In winter, her body is hot beneath your own.
You are convinced she is too good for you, that she will vanish and leave
you as miserable as you were before, and so you seize the chance for fear it
will vanish forever. The moment she accepts is your greatest achievement.
In that moment, your happiness reaches its peak. Even if the rest of your
life is a steady decline, the first love always stays pristine.”
Softly, he says, “I’ll take it.”
Hands trembling, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a wallet. I shake my head.
“That’s not the price I ask.”
His fingers freeze over the crisp green bills. His voice carries an
undertone of menace.
“Then what do you want?”
“A memory.” I reach into my pocket and take out a single seed.
It is small and colorless, ready to become anything. “A memory for a
memory, that is my price. First, you must give me one in turn, to replace
the one in my garden. Any memory, but it must be heartfelt – your most
brilliant, whether it be good or bad.”
He takes the seed doubtfully. “What do I need to do?”
“Hold it, and remember.”
The seed is tiny inside his palm and vanishes altogether when his
fist closes around it. He closes his eyes, brows furrowed. Sometimes they
smile, sometimes they scratch their head, sometimes they cry. He simply
presses his lips into a thin straight line. The act highlights the wrinkles at
the corner of his mouth, the skin pulled too tight across the bones, and I
realize that this man I once thought to be middle-aged could be no more
than thirty. After several minutes he opens his eyes again. Uncertainly, he
stares at the seed in his fist.
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