Blackberries Are Like Men

A ripe blackberry is a furtive thing. Finding one that bursts on my tongue like sweet indigo blood is a science that demands precise examination. Kneeling on the gravel path, I lace up my hiking boots, pull my hair into a tight ponytail, and survey the thorny bushes speckled with berries. I wade through, legs akimbo, arm outstretched, and with fingers sheathed in latex gloves (because blackberries are weaklings that cannot withstand so much as a sharp fingernail), I pluck one with the gentleness of handling an infant. It’s cute—plump, shiny drupelets with squiggly hairs, looking so juicy and ripe. But so did the forbidden fruit. I place the blackberry in a petri dish, set up my microscope, and inspect it under three lenses. The blackberry stains my white shirt and attracts fruit flies, but I swat them away. I take a pH sample, record the berry’s mass and compare it to its volume. Only then, when the sky is submerged in pastel watercolours, do I take a deep breath and drop the blackberry into my mouth. A thousand sour needles prick my tongue. I choke. I emit a high-pitched wheeze and wonder why I ever thought a blackberry could satisfy my appetite, the tricksters they are.