Not as Good as Last Year's

The man next door has a Strawbactus climbing his fence, and it has put out one fruit. He takes it off with an oven mitt, and it comes away with a sound like a cork. He eats half of it standing in the yard, juice on his chin, and hands you the other half.

Not as good as last year's, he says.

You taste it. You don't remember last year.

Down the block the 5:07 is in, its doors open, and you stay where you are. The black cat has come over the fence and sits on the fence post, looking at the platform.