The bowl of cherries sits between them, juicy and tempting like the full, pout-y lips of the younger woman taking a sip from her 7Up.
“Do you want a glass? I can get you one if you'd like.”
The naïve seraphim gives her great-aunt a lazy smile. Every week she is asked the same question, and every week her aunt answers it before she can open her mouth. It, too, is part of the summer ritual.
“Bah! Why do I ask? You always did like drinking from the can, even as a little girl. Remember?”
How can she forget? These weekly visits to this part of Maspeth have been a staple of her childhood, and now at twenty-six, the highlights of her over-scheduled life. Feasting upon the delights of cherries, Entenmann's Pound Cake, and 7Up while counting the number of planes flying in and out of LaGuardia make for a perfect “ dinner and a show.”
The City in the heat of July is nothing short of stifling. In full daylight a girl can wilt, melt into the cracked pavement of the sidewalks. But at dusk, with the sun setting behind the Grand Avenue Off-Ramp, turning the sky a delicate hue of pinkish-purple, a girl's soul can exhale. Nothing in the world is more beautiful than the view from that cement and wrought-iron balcony.
Breathing in deep, to catch that particular perfume of her aunt's talcum powder, fresh fruit from the A&P down the block, and motor exhaust, the young woman plucks a cherry from the bowl at the same time as her aunt.
Their eyes sparkle at each other. “We have the same eyes,” the girl muses, noticing the genetic similarity for the first time. The resemblance, physically, stops there.
The older woman has finer, reddish hair and flushed, creased skin. Soft, always soft, it has lost its youthful firmness over the years. Her grand-niece on the other hand, well, she is what the kids now call a “hottie.” Her hair – full, curly, and dark – she got from her mother. “But the eyes,” sighs the older woman, “those hazel almonds are mine.”
Each popping another cherry into their mouths, they scrape the flesh of the fruit until nothing but the pits are left. About to spit them into the their paper napkins, they smirk at each other. The older woman winks at her younger counter-part. The young lady is elated – they hadn't done this in years.
“On the count of three,” instructs her aunt.
They both poise at the edge of the balcony.
“One, two...”
In the enchanting light of sun-set, a passerby across the street makes out two forms laughing and giggling from a second-story balcony. Breathing in the sweet scent of exhaust fumes and window-sill flowers, in the light breeze he catches, ever so faintly, a note of 7Up and cherries.
He smiles, and won't suppress the urge to whistle.