Kevin was very small, even for a gremlin. If he stood on a carrot, he could almost see over a teacup.
Nearly. If it wasn't too tall. His eyes pointed in slightly different directions, which meant he often looked surprised by things he was already holding.
Kevin did not say “I love you” the usual way. He said it with produce.
A shiny tomato left on a doorstep. A pea pod carefully arranged on a pillow. A turnip, lovingly polished with vegemite and wrapped in a sock covered in love-hearts.
Today, however, Kevin had found treasure.
It was a strawberry — enormous, glossy, and so ripe it practically glowed. It was half his size and smelled like sunshine and secrets. He hugged it first, obviously. (One must always greet fruit politely.)
Then he took a bite.
Juice dribbled down his chin.
Seeds stuck to his nose. His ears wiggled with delight. Kevin sat right there in the middle of the kitchen floor, feet sticky, heart full, nibbling his way around the berry in slow, reverent circles.
Every few bites, he’d pause and beam proudly at no one in particular, as if to say:
This is for sharing…eventually.
Because that was Kevin’s way.
Love, to him, was sweet, a little messy, and best delivered one deliciously fruity bite at a time.
