Wandering down the lane, untethered from the day, the week, the year, I spotted a flash of red, folded back some leaves, and discovered a scattering of tiny strawberries, plump and wild, dangling unmolested in their perfect patch. Suspended over the ditch in a crosshatch of tall grass, leaves like sails blocking the sun.
I picked them and ate them all, saving none for you, which would have been neighbourly, or my husband, which would have been selfless, or my children, which would have been expected, or my in-laws, which would have been generous.
No.
I picked them and ate them all, until my fingers bled their juices and my lips buzzed with satisfaction.
Author: Nicole Desjardins Gowdy studied creative writing at the University of Wisconsin - Madison, where she received a University Book Store Award for Academic Excellence for her senior thesis, a collection of short stories. Her writing has appeared in West Trade Review, MoonPark Review, The Bangalore Review, NiftyLit, and Canvas.