The Fruitarian

September took the relay and confidently swapped the summer's full colors for yellowed leaves, light denim for windbreakers, and increasingly suggested a car instead of the bicycle. Though, when you are twenty, you do not really notice these subtle shifts. You are not afraid of the coming slush or the cold of winter. All these extra thoughts only bring on a kind of melancholy and distract you from the freedom in your head. There is enough dopamine in the blood to ignore these social fixations.

That day I had a good workout, a heavy lunch, and three free hours before work. My mentor only began our sessions at six. Until six, I had to do something. I decided to drop by the market.

Everything was shining. The market was ripening. Pears — honeyed, with thin skin. Plums — dark, astringent. Apples — firm, with a coolness inside. The first persimmons — still cautious, but already sweet. To pass them by — impossible. Greek grapes — clusters almost on the verge of sugar. Figs soft, soft, opened. And the late raspberries — full, with depth of flavor. From every counter came confident voices, somewhere between recommendation and propaganda.

Everything was polished to a color it could not have been born with, and it called, called, called. My judgment lost its center. Each time I crossed from one table to another, I listened to the market's advisers and bought, bought everything I did not need. The bags grew heavy, and I did not notice.

In this nothingness, time passed quickly, and only at home did I find myself with a serious cargo of fruit. I found a worthy metal plate, arranged the "gifts" of the advisers on the dish, lit them from above with a lamp. They began to look like the wax figures at Madame Tussauds. Beautiful, desired, and foreign.

Less than a week later — half had rotted. The other half went into compote. The market was waiting again.

It is September again. I am thirty-three. I live in a warm country. So does my friend. His name is Lee-Ray. It is not his real name, and I do not remember the real one, or do not wish to say it. It would not make any difference anyway. We live as neighbors. Almost every morning, I drive over to him. We talk. I arrange the fruit, now on his metal plate, and the sun lights it without a lamp. Sorting is unavoidable. The ones that have started to go, I move aside. Those are mine, or for my creative culinary fantasies. The fresh ones — for him.

Lee-Ray is, in general, very selective and prone to seasons.

Today he adores papaya. Other fruits, it seems, do not interest him. As soon as his fingers touch the juicy flesh, a small symphony of passion is born around him, and it seems even the birds, hopping from branch to branch, are singing *Ave Maria*.

In short, I am the witness of a love dance you would not find even in a Truffaut film. Except this dance has an end. Before papaya, Lee-Ray adored pomegranate. Before pomegranate, I think, strawberries. Before strawberries — kiwi, perhaps? Remembering them all is its own task.

"What do you want me to do with this?" I ask, holding a dried-out fruit by its stem.

Lee-Ray throws an indifferent glance at the bowl.

"The pomegranate is obviously finished. Throw it out."

"Maybe at least juice?"

"Darling. Look at this husk. All the juices have left it. How could it compare with this beauty?" He sinks his lips into a half of papaya and hums. "I have never tasted anything better. Magnificent!"

Three years ago, without exaggeration, Lee-Ray said the very same thing about strawberries. He so adored that juicy beauty that I half-expected him to break out in hives.

"Don't go so hard. You'll be full quickly," I warn him. "And the other half will end up in the smoothie pile."

"Don't be clever. Drive over and get milk."

"A fruitarian wants lactose? That's something new."

"Trust me. You need it more than I do. Maybe you'll finally find what you're looking for."

"You're something else. Anything special?"

"That is up to you. I already found my special."

"For how long?"

He throws a pillow at me but misses. Without waiting for the next attack, I retreat to the store.

The street meets me at my most unprepared. To keep myself from coming apart entirely, I pick the music the app has politely prepared, and ride my moped along the long route, to the farthest store.

The shelves are crammed with dozens of identical cartons. They scream: "Buy me!" "Farm taste!" "Alpine freshness!" Like the market, intrusive propaganda for a happiness that is not in the box. In the farthest corner, under a dim light, stands a rectangular pack. White, like a hospital wall. No cows, no meadows, no exclamation marks. Just black letters on white: MILK.

It looked like the truth.

The way back goes faster. The news of the find seems to move time forward by itself. Maybe this time it worked.

Lee-Ray is lying on the lawn, sprawled like a well-fed lion, warming in the sun.

"Found it."

"Congratulations. Put it in the fridge."

"But you wanted it…"

"Wanted, wanted, passed. I'm full now. It happens."

"And what about the papaya?" I ask, anxious.

Lee-Ray props himself on his elbows, lowers his sunglasses, and looks at me intently.

"It died. Like all the others. Look at the dish."

A fruit lies there, covered in flies.

I felt sorry for the papaya. Without saying a word, I went to the kitchen, took out the plastic wrap, and carefully wound a single layer around it. So it would not rot completely, but without making any holes in the wrap. Put it in the fridge.

This is what one does with all the relics no one needs anymore.

"Listen, did you see the neighbors have a mangosteen growing?" Lee-Ray says suddenly.

I shake my head.

"Behind the fence, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, yes, that's their property."

"But the fruit is so sweet…"

That night I did not close my eyes. I kept thinking about that mangosteen. Turning the thoughts over. Yes, the neighbors have a high fence. But it can be climbed. Yes, they have a dog. But the dog knows me — I feed it milk when they travel. It will not bark.

The mangosteen grows in the corner closest to our gate. Mangosteen ripens at the end of September. It is the end of September.

In the morning, I wrapped my sneakers in a plastic bag so I would leave no prints in the soil.

Lee-Ray loves it when I arrange fresh fruit on the metal plate.

I suppose I love fruit too.