Jada bites into the soft cold flesh and water runs sticky down her face and flecks her clothes. A seed lodges in her hair. Her fingernails dig into the skin and cut the green open; it breathes, it bleeds. Mouthful after mouthful she devours, hungry as the morning, impatient - the pink disappears between her teeth and dissipates, a sweet refreshing mess. Her face and neck are awash in its juices and it trickles down her arms, off her elbows, dripping silent into the sand, a sugar trap for insects.
7.30am and already the light over the water is hazed by heat, and the tarmac stretches and braces for the pressure of the day. In hours it will burn through people's shoes and make them curse the sun they came seeking, and they won't notice their own contradiction but will head for the shade so they can sit down to moan.
Jada doesn't wait for the scorching time; she'll be long gone. These are her hours, the early ones when the world is still awaking and the sea glimmer is uninterrupted by boats or swimmers. Briny waves prick her ankles, calves, cool as she wades deeper, makes a path with her arms and mixes sweet with salt as the juice she has allowed to coat her skin is washed away.
