There’s a bowl of fruit on the table between us. I’m having trouble looking at it.

She says something and takes from the bowl, bites deep into it. The juice runs down her chin and she has to cup her hand under her face to catch the droplets.

I look away, disgusted. I know what that fruit really is. I know what that juice really looks like. I’ve seen them hanging from the trees in her orchard, still beating and breathing. I’ve seen them on tables still and rotting.

She’s biting into a heart.

She tells me to try one.