Sun-warmed pavement cracks my bare feet, dust swirling in the late afternoon heat. Laughter, a distant echo, bounces off the brick facades, a melody that sharpens the ache in my chest.

The street vendor’s cart overflows with a kaleidoscope of colors – plump melons, jade-green limes, and a mountain of ruby-red strawberries glistening in the sun. I lick my dry lips, the memory of sweetness flooding my senses.

In your hand, held with the delicate grace of a poised painter holding a brush, is a fat, ruby-red strawberry.

You’re about to take a bite.

And it’s that pause, that split second between anticipation and indulgence, that stuns me.

Your lips are parted in a tiny O, full and tempting enough to rival the fruit itself. But it’s your eyes – the real treasure. They crinkle at the corners, a hint of laughter bubbling beneath the surface. There’s a light in them, a mischievous spark that seems to dare you to steal a glance, to share in the secret pleasure of the impending bite.

The taste lingered, sweet and tart, a memory imprinted on my tongue long after the last bite.

Now, the vendor’s booming voice breaks the spell. I watch as a couple, hands intertwined, leans in to share a single berry. Their eyes meet, a universe of unspoken emotions swirling within.

A pang of envy shoots through me. Is that the taste of love? Is it the sweetness of the strawberry, amplified by shared stolen moments, by dreams whispered under a summer sky?

I clench a crumpled twenty baht bill in my sweaty hand. Maybe one bite, just a single taste, could answer the question that lingers on my lips and in the empty space where your hand should be.