Strawberries

*I haven't written in a long time, and this is just an exercise in imagery and observation to get my cogs turning again*

Counter to what I expected based on the pile of knot top greenery in front of me, I'm still hungry. Like the smooth sensation of a hand ladling into the ribbonthinandsoft currents of a lake when canoeing, I found these strawberries to feel and taste cool and sweet, plush and wet.

I've been told before to take the ones that bend and dip with the faintest pressing of a thumb, like a head slowly laying to rest anticipating the cool enveloping of a concave pillow, and mash them into a jam. But I don't really know how to define when fruit is ripe, I don't understand why brown paper bags make a difference, and I'm not willing to use them for anything but delightfully delicious compost.

As I sit in a Rembrandt room working lightly from the light of the windows shadowed by honeycombed blankets over the scaffolding, these strawberries appear surreal and distant, almost ceramic. The many dimples project many shadows. The leafy heads crinkle and turn into their fatigue-green knot tops. What I know I bought as saturated and vibrant red bodies have now turned to marooning rocks positioned in such a way as to border a craggy pier.

This is the process:
I manipulate my fingers to pull on the leaflets into a tight apex from which the red body might be suspended.
I tug the slight weight into the air and bring the nose to my mouth.
I fellate the strawberry until my lips have reached a point of circumference satisfyingly big enough to ensure the utmost satisfaction from this particular strawberry.
I raise my lip to move forward a moment so that the lips can be replaced by the teeth that will then conduct their incision.
The body resists as my teeth press and push in, only to inevitably, submittingly burst into the folds of my mouth on to the bed of my tongue and beyond the sanctuary of light and air just out of reach, still visible through the blur of my silhouetted teeth.
The body of the strawberry then meets its demise as its corpse is demolished through grinding and cutting, knives and turbulent surfaces pressing and slicing. What was once a strawberry would now be regurgitated as an unidentifiable red gel, chunky and slippery.
I view the inverted dome of the strawberry's decapitation, and decide how best to jut my teeth and purse my lips into the most efficient, effective, and clean means of engaging the remaining edibility.
My pursed teeth and jutting lips ravenously scavenge the remainder of the strawberry outside, bite after bite after bit-bite after bite.
Chew.
Swallow.
Satisfied in good, but not in plenty.