Two hands reach for a small fruit in front of them. The last one. Her eyes grow aware of the shared interest. She draws back. It was the polite thing to do, offer it to the other. But he cared so much for his (specious) righteousness. His hand grasped the pomegranate that once was only capable of living by a mother. Its tree. His fingers cupped the pomegranate as an oversized blanket does a baby. He turns, it’s yours. They both knew he had lied. They both knew, the second he wanted it, it was his. Acting on instinctual mannerisms, she waved her hand; just as she had practiced with her mother as a girl. This granted him permission he already had, by obligated kindness. She was ready for the show. His large hands had not only held this fruit now, but began to push. To squeeze. A hole was now found along the edge of the fruit, and it bled. It leaked out of the fruit. He cursed under his breath, and was now struggling to gently peel back the layering. He was far too powerful for anything of important delicacy. Powerful in the aggressive sense. She had no choice but to sit; to sit and to watch. She allowed the ripest of them all watch its own insides flow out of it. As if it was punctured by something far more imperil. But it was just him. It was just a large grasp, on a very sensitive subject. And he held all of the power. Walking away, she only went a few seconds before she collided with another guy, of more significance. He waved to the boy who created the mess, they up and left. It was then she was able to confirm that, they would always get what they wanted despite the mess they’d abandon.