[ FF ] A fruitless conversation

All he ever wanted was a strawberry. 
 
 He would close his eyes and lick his lips and imagine one last, juicy red strawberry, and for a moment, he could taste the sweetness and feel the juice drip out the corner of his mouth and down his chin. In his mind, it was perfect – the vivid color dotted with perfect rows of perfect little seeds below leaves as green as the leaves on the forest canopy after a spring rain. 
 
 The cold stones of the wall, cracked and spotted with mold and moss, would fade away, leaving behind the open air, a summer breeze, and the warm summer sun. 
 
 Instead of filthy straw, his feet would dig into cool, green grass, and he could hear children laughing as they flew their kites and blew dandelion seeds across the meadow. 
 
 She would be there too, beside him. Smiling and setting his heart on fire in the way she always could. In the way she always did. 
 
 With one last click of his teeth, he would finish the strawberry with a satisfying slurp, the flesh exploding on his tongue. 
 
 “ I told you this was worth it, ” he ’ d say, holding up the remainder of the perfect strawberry. She laughed and nodded, and she leaned over to wipe the juice from his chin. He could almost feel the warmth of her touch, smell the hint of rosewater she used as a perfume on the base of her neck. “ I would stay here, forever, ” he whispered to her, the same as he had a hundred times. 
 
 With the last tendrils of the memory, he looked out over the meadow as the soldiers crested the hill and came into view. One pointed a bayonet in his direction. The leaves of the strawberry fell from his fingers as the memory fell to pieces around him. 
 
 The cold crept back in, and a fly landed on his wrist, he flicked it away, feeling the sting of the shackles against the sores dotting his scrawny bones. His put a hand on an empty belly, and flicked his tongue across lips that hadn ’ t tasted anything but gray gruel in far too long. 
 
 He pried open his world weary eyes, his mouth dry and his lips cracked. A single beam of light filtered through the barred window, coated in dust and desperation. 
 He didn ’ t even know if it was summer, or spring, or fall, but he looked at that tiny splinter of gray sky and smiled sadly. 
 
 Somewhere, a strawberry grew under that sky. Its skin was red as the coats the soldiers wore, its leaves greener than the moss on the cell wall. The prisoner cracked his back, his bones aching with the effort, leaned back and closed his eyes. 
 
 He could see it now – the perfect strawberry. 
 
 All he wanted was a strawberry.
