Paradise Fruits

A blind man sat alone on a crowded beach. The hot sun shone down on his balding scalp as the salty breeze tickled his bare skin. He dug his toes into the granular sand, wiggling them deeper into the cooler, damper part. He could hear beachgoers splash into rough waves, and somewhere close by an acoustic guitar played a soothing melody.

Laying down on his borrowed hotel beach towel, the man took off his glasses and stared unseeingly into the light of day. The world kept on moving, people arriving and departing, melting together like wax under a hot iron. The day passed slowly in raucous laughter and youthful joy; the man silently listening.

As the air cooled in the setting sun, the man stirred, rising to his feet, his back set against the darkened sea. He brushed the sand from his trousers and gingerly pulled on his socks, then running shoes. The wind had picked up. Its gusting breath shook the grit desperately clinging to his dampened towel. He then proceeded to stuff its crumpled body back into the cotton tote bag bearing its hotel logo.

The old man knew how to travel light. Places would always be willing to go the extra effort for a blind man. Hunger growled deep in his stomach, the sign the old man had been waiting for. He moved along the stone barrier between the beach and boardwalk, keeping to the former. His leg muscles ached from the additional effort. Soft grunts escaped parched lips as the blind man rounded the bend leading to his destination.

The small wooden fruit stand had been built directly on the sand with varying sizes of discarded driftwood. Three mismatched stools sat on a floating deck along an open counter. The old man could hear a knife chopping quickly on a wooden cutting board as he approached.

The woman behind the counter was in her mid-thirties. Her long auburn hair was tied behind her back, a few strands escaping to dangle in front of small, rounded ears. Her face held a warm brownness earned from years spent in the daily sun. Her voice was soft-spoken with a slight British accent.

“Good evening, and Welcome to Paradise.” She gestured to the homemade sign hanging a skew on the wall behind her. Paradise Fruits was carved on a painted yellow slab of driftwood in what looked to be dark purple ink.

“What can I get you?” She asked as the old man sat down on the middle stool.

“What do you recommend?” The man replied, his stomach growling once more.

The woman pointed to the wooden crates to her left. “These just came in today, if you were looking for something really fresh.”

The blind man took off his glasses. He listened to her silence searching for the surprise and pity he always sensed. None came.

“We got the mangos and jackfruit in today. The papaya’s not quite ripe yet unfortunately,” she paused, head tilted to one side considering. “But the passion fruits are good.”

“Do you make salads?” he asked.

“Sure, I can do something up for you. Give me five.”

The woman continued chopping fruit setting aside a handful of pieces at a time to make the old man’s salad. Salads were not strictly on the menu, but the woman said nothing. The man patiently waited in mutual silence.

“There you go,” the woman said after placing a large bowl in front of the blind man.

He took a bite of mango first, its juices running down his unshaven chin, his milky eyes unblinking. The old man reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm. “Thank you, Sylvia,” he softly spoke.

The blind man felt her pulse quicken under his calloused thumb. He smiled and closed his unseeing eyes.

Sliding his right hand into his jacket, he grabbed the hidden pocketknife.