The Perfect Berry

Moist from faucet water.

Blackberries are a lot like people. Each one disproportionate in it's own little way. Lop sided or under filled. Stunted or overgrown. I shift them around with my index finger tip searching for the one that would fill my hunger for sweetness, my odd addiction to crush-resistant seeds and of course my loyal affinity for the berry with multiple personalities. That one has a flat spot. This one is too red. So on.

There was one that seemed to find my finger. So perfectly plump with juice and soft that it seemed a little unnatural. Too perfect. I negotiated with my self for a moment, then decided to put it down. Save it for last, I think to myself.