Persimmons

Randy didn't have any idea what a persimmon looked like, but he knew if he didn't bring one home Diana would chop off his left index finger.

She was like that-- a little angry, a little violent, a little hasty. Randy was loathe to forget any of her requests. He was a craven little man with glasses and a widow's peak. He painted miniature figurines at home so he could be near Diana during the day. This was by order of Diana, although Randy tried to tell himself it was his own decision. Diana always kept a cleaver under her pillow and waved it at him as she listed her daily demands. She also kept a variety of bells near her bedside, and the tintinnabulation of the afternoons almost drove him mad.

But Randy was terrified of Diana and so walked on eggshells with delicate little feet. He was already down a pinky. This is also why he lingered in department stores, shopping malls, and grocery outlets. Desiree from the pharmacy always laughed; she was risible and beautiful and Randy wished he could trade his grumpy sister in for the precocious and lovely Desiree. He loved to say her name slowly, drawing out each constant and vowel until it sounded like a chant from Gregorian monks.

He looked around the produce section for a blue-aproned employee with a price-gun or a nametag or a mullet. There was only one woman in the entire area, and she was picking up pink grapefruit and using her hands to weigh each one against the other.

Randy watched her for a moment and decided that a person so picky about grapefruit could probably identify the persimmon for him. He approached.

"Excuse me, miss, I hate to interrupt your, um, grapefruit evaluation there, but could you point me in the direction of the persimmons?"

She laughed. He couldn't believe it. It sounded like Diana's bells but prettier; he wnated to defenstrate the persimmon's and ask this woman to go to dinner with him.

"Persimmons?" He could barely understand her through the giggles. "You're way out of season, buddy. I mean, you could buy something imported but you're going to pay an arm and a leg, and if you're really in the mood you'll have to go to Dalmation Produce over on 45th." She glanced around and leaned closer to him. He could smell her perfume; a cross between maple syprup and vanilla creme pie.

"You'll never find a decent persimmon in a grocery outlet," she confided.

"Thank you," he said. "Is Dalmation Produce on 45th and Grand or 45th and Broad?" Randy asked.

"Broad." The woman dropped two grapefruit in a red plastic basket on the floor. "But don't waste your time today; they're closed."

Randy felt his heartbeat rise. "Shit," he said. "I'm a dead man."

"I take it persimmons are high on your list of priorities?" she asked.

"It's for my sister. She's an invalid, and she specifically asked for persimmons, and if I don't bring them home she's apt to chop a finger off."

"You're kidding, right?"

He held up his right hand. She gasped at the three fingers and a thumb.

"You don't have a pinky."

He shook his head. He didn't tell her what else he was missing.

"Listen, I've got a couple persimmons at home. I'm a fan of them myself. You want to follow me? I just live a few miles away."

He felt his stomach drop. "I don't have a car," he confesed. "I ride the bus. That's my usual regimen, anyway."

She licked her lips and bit down on the lower one. "You can ride with me," she said.

"Really?"

She sighed. "I'm such a sucker. Yes. Really. C'mon. Let's go before I change my mind."

"What about your grapefruit?" he asked.

"Bollocks on the grapefruit. Let's go find you some persimmons."