I washed a single, perfect berry. I did not cut it. I sat by the window where the afternoon light hit my bare arms. I held it to my nose first—that green, sweet, almost peppery scent.
Go to the kitchen. Find the reddest thing in the fridge. Do not prepare it. Do not share it. strawberry ifeelmyself
We spend so much time performing pleasure for others—the right face, the right noise, the right amount of enthusiasm. But when you are truly alone, truly with yourself, what does your pleasure sound like? Is it a gasp? A sigh? Silence? I washed a single, perfect berry