Sunday for Mrs. Aptree

Mrs. Aptree was not a vile woman, never spat at the birds, never kicked the sand into the sea, though, to tell you the truth, there's bit of a second side to that view altogether.

Mrs. Aptree walked more than a mile to get to her local store. The store with the fruits, spices, and the special kinds of onions she liked with her turkey and ham. Baked, though, none of that instant-sliced nonsense. The whole damn bird.

The watermelons were best at the middle, Mrs. Aptree had learned long ago, in her younger times, when she joined her mother at this same store. And while the store has gone through many changes itslef, expanded things, the truth remained that the best watermelons were the ones in the middle.

The first melon: Too many bumps
The second melon: Shell is all wrong

Mrs. Aptree slid over to lift the third watermelon. Her hands trembled just a tad when she raised the fruit, but she kept it in place, until she looked down and see a gigantic emerald flashing it's unexpected brilliance at the old woman.

It was an awe-inspiring thing, was this emerald, in the middle of the store with the spices and chicken. Ms. Aptree had only seen in them at the bank, lastly on the anniversary of her mother's funeral, when she visited the bank to speak, in the confines of their vault, to her dead mother, and rearrange her jewelry, which contained emeralds, but they were for flash and style, small things that fit on clothing. This, this emerald would have to be double bagged, no doubt, in order for someone to leave with it from the store. One bag, it would certainly tear through, scratch on the pavement of the parking lot.