where one thing ended.
The email from his boss began: "Thank you for the fruit bowel. I enjoyed it very much." He tried to work out what the small intestine of a bean or a berry might be. Maybe it was the mesocarp. Or the fibrous threads clinging to the pit when he pulled a peach apart. Or the sieve elements shuttling sugar through the bloodstream, fuelling the soft flesh of a ripe fig. He felt a flutter behind his banana breastbone. He spat out the seeds squatting in his stomach and bit into the rind of his muskmelon mind. The better to gorge himself on the nectar of not knowing where one thing ended and another began.