In the windows, in the shops, there are round red fruits with stems that look like lips, in a pucker. They are made of ceramic.
I point. Zilla nods. “They used to fill them with rubies, to represent the seeds.”
I don’t know if this is true, but I like to imagine.
In the crates, in front of the stalls, the real red fruits are cut open, the seeds in shapes like henna on a hand.
I point. The man behind the counter nods.
He reaches for a pomegranate and slices it open. Several rubies fall out.
Quickly, he brushes them to the floor.
He puts the fruit in his juice press and pulls down the lever. Pure color drips out.
I hand him a lira.
He hands me the cup.
It is cold but his hand is warm.
Raspberries, sweet corn. Or pomegranate.
Maybe I have never tasted pomegranate before.
In the window, my lips are red. So were his fingers.