We saw the shooting star from our house. It tumbled through the night into the woods at the bottom of the garden. It was a warm night. We went barefoot, padding through a mulch of fallen leaves. In a clearing we found a glowing crater, in the middle of which it lay, pulsing bright. A tangerine.
Tentatively, you picked it up and held it out. It was warm. We peeled away the skin and split the flesh. It was, without a doubt, the sweetest thing we’d ever tasted. In the juice, galaxies sparkled.