One June night
she left her husband sleeping
in the record-breaking heat
and went down to ask the fridge
what it was she wanted.

What she wanted was:
the life of a fruiteater,
an endless afternoon
in a cool and juicy place
where white teeth sank into Spanish oranges
and apples fell open into perfect halves
on wooden chopping-boards,
all by themselves, all day,
and cubes of watermelon
clinked in long glasses.

Splay-legged on the kitchen floor,
she hugged the bowl of fruit salad
to her chest, and remembered how,
at the very beginning,
Eve sat, blindfold and giggling,
as he brought the spoonfuls up to her mouth,
one by one,
to be named.