I had to watch an instructional video on how to eat a pomegranate. Sorry if my depiction is not accurate, but I have never so much as touched one.
She had never fancied herself immoral. She was a professional woman, a fact easily derived from the black slacks and white button-down crumpled on the floor. The low heels kicked off in the direction of the closet suggested practicality, as did the plain grey undergarments that had ended up God-knows-where. She knew all about cleanliness and housekeeping, and was never too swept away by passion to mention, "Not on the comforter - it's harder to wash." She conducted the affair with sense, caution, and the slightest bit of cynicism.
He was the romantic, whimsical half. He never failed to have the penthouse filled with lush, blooming flowers whenever she visited. The windows stayed open, letting in crisp autumn air and a breeze that stirred the sea glass wind chimes, though he closed them when she pointed out the traffic noise far below.
It was also him who first mentioned the pomegranates.
His passing interest in Greek mythology did not come as a surprise. She arrived one afternoon in October to find him thumbing through a tan hardcover book with a picture of an urn on the front. The air outside was no warmer than fifty degrees - rubbing at her forearms, she made a move to close the large windows.
"Look at this, Haru," he said excitedly. He held up the book, showing her a page of French text. Though the alphabet was familiar, she did not read a word of the language, and quickly brought this to his attention.
"It's the story of Persephone," he explained. "Do you know it?"
"Vaguely." She furrowed her brow in thought. "She was raped, right?"
Frowning slightly, he shook his head. "Kidnapped. She was kidnapped by Hades. He took her down to Hell with him and fed her pomegranates so that she had to stay one month for every seed she ate. Isn't that romantic?" There was an eager, childlike twinkle in his amethyst eyes - he was far gone in this idea.
"What's romantic about a kidnapping?" She was being practical. It was one of the things she excelled in.
"That's not the point." For an instant his twenty-two years became no more than six. "He wanted her there with him." He set the book down and took her hands in his own.
She let him kiss her head and her neck and everywhere else, and then he swept her up and carried her off.
She had never fancied herself immoral, but sometimes she found the idea quite exciting. Mistresses must lead pleasant lives, she imagined. Soft silk sheets, the deep breathing of a handsome companion; they were all things she could get used to. She could be a lawyer by day, she thought with a childish grin, and live on pure pleasure by night. It was a delightful fantasy.
She watched Tamaki sleep until close to five o' clock, and then she rose from bed and dressed as quietly as possible. The apartment was as familiar to her as her own - she knew where to find the kitchen, and once in the kitchen she knew where to find the fruit.
Pomegranates were difficult to eat. She had tasted one at a market as a child. The seeds had stuck to her hands, and her tongue tingled with the bitter aftertaste. She rummage through the drawers until she found a sharp knife, and, carefully so as no to cut herself, she began to slice it into sections, starting with the ends. The inside was a lusty blood red, just as she remembered it. She pulled the wedges apart, selected one, and scooped off a couple of seeds. She placed them on her tongue, wincing at the unpleasant taste. That's two months, she thought. A third seed; a third month. A silly game. She was being impractical.
There was a noise behind her, and an interested voice asked, "Curious, are we?"
Haruhi turned. Her lips were stained with the juice, and she looked like a guilty child, caught in an act of pre-dinner gluttony.
"It's not because of Persephone," she was quick to say. She ate another seed, swallowing it before she could taste it, and put the fruit down on a napkin. "Besides-" She felt her face flush as she spoke, "-I don't need pomegranates to stay."
Tamaki put his arms around her waist and rested his head on her shoulder. "I love you so much," he whispered into her ear. "Can you stay for dinner?"
Haruhi's face fell. She popped another seed in her mouth, and tried to speak without thinking. She didn't want to dwell the truth anymore than he did. "Hikaru's plane lands in two hours, and I have to take a shower." There was red juice all over her fingers; she hoped it wouldn't stain her white shirt. "I'm sorry."
She left five minutes later, the remnants of the fruit still on her hands after an unsuccessful washing, the bitter taste still in her mouth. Before they said their goodbyes, she slipped another pomegranate into her bag.
She was a practical, professional woman, but this was one myth she wanted to believe in.