“Strawberry Moon”

By the third morning the mark had spread. A thin line of moisture ran along the grain, catching dust as it moved. Lifting the peach left a shallow crater, the varnish clouded and uneven. The fruit sagged in my hand. I wiped the sill, but the surface stayed raised at the edge where the wood had begun to swell. The room held the change for the rest of the day, of how one softening thing alters a surface built to outlast it.