No one near.

I just finished eating a bowl of plums so good I had to sit down on the floor. I got them out of the fridge, elephant hearts and Ozark pluots, expecting I'd eat them while watching something. I took one bite of an elephant heart - so sweet and so cold, the darkest red of any fruit, the toe-curling tough and smooth sour skin and the bursting liquid of the ultra-ripe flesh - and immediately knew I had to be on the floor for these. Doing nothing but eating this fruit.

And the Ozarks, a little firmness left, almost floral in their taste. Juice down my fingers, between my teeth. Lay me down in a bathtub of stone fruit and I'll do my best to eat my way out. I have a few more in the fridge I'm saving for tomorrow because I know I want to gorge and I'll regret it if I do. And come Friday, I'm going to pounce on those bins and take home at least as much as I did last week, filling myself up with the end of summer, that period of low summer, the slanted light on the still-bright-green leaves and the blue sky gradually hardening, but summer's not yet gone, there's just enough of it still around to know it's not yet gone.