CANTaloupe
Clint Koltveit

���� There is a push on my shoulder from behind. "Excuse me. Excuse me. Man. Hello. We are closed."
���� I look around; there is a lot of produce. Am I in the supermarket?
���� "Sir, I am going to need to escort you out of the store. We are closed for the night."
���� "No. Sorry. There's no need. I must have zoned out," I turn to exit, "Sorry again for the trouble."
���� I check my watch; it is nine o' four pm. What the hell just happened to me? I went in at what was it, like eight. I remember walking in through the automatic door. The produce aisle was right there. I squeezed some peaches. They were hard as stones.

���� "Then what, Kyle?"
���� "That's just it. I don't remember. After the peaches. It is all blank. Don't know."
���� "Any family history of narcolepsy?"
���� "None."
���� "Is it possible you misread the clock? Maybe it was nine when you went in to the market."
���� "Even if I misread, they close at nine, would they have let me in?"

���� They won't be letting me back in, not after this. I have absolutely no explanation why I am lying in the cantaloupe bin. Must have blacked out again. I am up before the security guards have to pull me.
���� "My melons. You have squashed my melons," the manager yelps.
���� "Relax," getting out my wallet, "I'll pay for the melons," I give the guy a ten for his trouble and leave the store with a couple cantaloupes; they can give away the rest.
���� The television does not take my mind off the incident. In fact, cannot stop thinking about the cantaloupes I now have. Bet the rind sure feels nice; that web of raised netting along the smooth skin.

���� "It didn't feel particularly wrong. Or right. Didn't even really think about it. Knew they were in the fridge so I grabbed one."
���� "Then what�?"
���� "Just kicked back in my easy chair with a cantaloupe on my lap. Like it was a cat. Totally peaceful."
���� "And you sat there for how long?"
���� "I fell asleep, right there with the T.V. on. I was out for hours. The best I've slept since my first blank-out."
���� "What is it that attracts you, Kyle, of all things, to cantaloupe?"

���� The answer to that question eludes me like figs in a dish. I wouldn't even say I'm attracted, just needy. Lowering my apartment's temperature to an optimal 39 degrees allows me to keep the freshest cantaloupes around: on top of the stereo, the countertops, next to the lamp. This way I can try and get my head around cantaloupes; try and see things from their perspective.
���� Even 39 degrees doesn't keep cantaloupe forever. It starts to go soft and mushy. I hate waste, so I search the web: turns out you can can cantaloupe. I have plenty of jars so I slice up some cantaloupe and slide it. into. glass. cantaloupes.
���� Cantaloupes against the glass, all�very familiar. When I was very small. With my blanket. Sitting on a bean bag. When the door opens. Dad is there. He brought home a jar. "This is all that is left," he says. Floating inside the jar, pressing out on the glass, what looks like a melon. They took this out of her, he explained. They thought they could save her. Dad saved the jar.
���� The jar stayed with us on the mantle in the parlor through all the TV dinners and football games but I could never touch or hold near.
���� Mother, these cantaloupes bring us closer than ever before.

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//�� Advance�� //