Pom

The problem with creative non-fiction is that sometimes, you forget what's real and what's made up. I can't tell if it's a sign of a good imagination or a bad memory, but either way, I'm pretty sure that the following story never actually happened. 

Fiction. Mostly.

I always thought pomegranates were cool. I love their ugly, tough exterior and the fact that below their shell lies a wealth of jeweled seeds the color of juicy rubies. I like working for something good--awkwardly plunging a knife into this fruit and pulling it in half, then taking a quarter of an hour just to seed the thing. 

I would get them at the store every now and again when I saw them, but eventually stopped because of the mess they made. Each seed contains tiny amounts of juice, but the entire fruit bleeds thin crimson nectar all over the counters and onto your clothing. 

Obviously, the only proper way to do this is to get naked.

At my family's lake cabin one summer years ago, already clad in a bikini, I took the liberty of splitting open a ripe pomegranate and taking it to the bathroom. I sat in the tub with the two halves and ate the entire thing, one handful of seeds at a time. Sticky scarlet juice ran down my arms and face in long droplets, and when I was done, I set the husks of the fruit aside and took a bath.