Peppermint is for the even later evenings. When he gets home late, and my brother is asleep, and I am standing on the porch watching the shadows of oak leaves make manic pirouettes on the dirt and swan lake windchimes, and his headlights interrupt their dance. He will recount his evening, and ask if I want watermelon, and start cutting watermelon. “This big yellow spot is how you know it’s a good one.” But in fact it is not a good one (he frowns), yellow and seedy, so instead we have grapefruit. And I pick out the slimy black seeds of the watermelon corpse, and I make a pyramid of seed and rind on the edge of the cutting board. Together, under the solitary yellow circle of kitchen light, we pick away at our grapefruit halves. Silently, until the kettle whistles. And I watch him lean against the granite countertop, waiting for the tea to steep. And I watch him watch the shiny canyons and dragons of yellow honey amalgamating at the bottom of the mugs.
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