This is the story of Paresh and his watermelons. No one knows why Paresh is so meticulous about wrapping every melon he slices in half with thin filmy foil. People wonder about the manic look in his eye as he smooths down the edges with his little fingernail. He's happy to sell you as many as you want, he'll weigh them in perfectly with only the slightest suggestion of anticipation in his actions. But every watermelon around him is a ticking second, and Paresh waits in the centre of his rounded, green, striated universe with two blood-red circles covered in clingfilm on either side of him.

cxviii the fruitfly does not care. Reflected in the shiny orbs of its eyes are the gleams of light thrown off the transparent cover. Vigilance is not an issue, neither is hate, there will always be a moment when Paresh looks away. There will always be a blink of eye, a speck of dust, a bead of sweat. Whatever the distraction, it will be too small to evade and too quick to invite a premonition, cxviii will swoop down from the lightbulb and sit on a watermelon tonight.

Which leaves the watermelons themselves. If it's tragic to be human, consider being a fruit.

Now call me Kafka.