Taste. It was the first sense she thought of as she stared at it. Some things were worth waiting for, considering. Some things needed those moments of anticipation when one lets their imagination work, lets it run away with them. There was something wonderful about allowing it to take her over, thinking about what it would be like against her tongue, that first rush of juice as she bit into it. Sweet, and yet with just a little bite to it. That tangible breaking of the skin as her teeth pierce it, as she penetrates the outer layer. The threat of stickiness as she imagines the juice dripping from the corner of her lips. The tang on her fingertips as she finishes it and is too jealous to let even a few drops of the juice go to waste. Her mouth waters and she tilts her head slightly, continuing her contemplation.

Smell. Just sitting there she can smell it. So ripe. The smell of outdoors, of sunshine soaked in. The smell of freshness and life right there waiting for her. A hint of the sweetness to come when she will bite into it. Nothing of the tang there, no, that is a surprise reserved for the splash of juice against her tongue. But the smell, it was worth savouring in and of itself.

Sight. Perhaps most people would have thought of this first, and yet for her it is not primary, not for this. Still wonderful though, still worthy of musing upon. The red nearly perfect, just a hint of lightness around the stem, the slow change of tint begging to be enjoyed. Each seed held by a perfect little dent, the shadows complex enough to offer the hint of a sheen to her gaze. The curves soft, comfortable, awaiting the brush of a fingertip. The sight of the arc inciting her imagination to flights of fancy, anticipating her tongue wrapping around it. The green of the leaves were a stark contrast. No shine, no reflection of light. Looking at them, she wonders if they will crackle slightly under her fingertips or if they will be pliant, bending easily under the pressure of eager digits, holding with just enough pressure to steady it.

Touch. The anticipation led her here, to the moment. A first brush of her fingertips against the leaves, the recognition of the dry texture to the edges, the richer feel of the stem. Instead of picking it up, however, she stroked a fingertip along the fullness of it, the smooth skin contrasted with the slight edges of the seeds. The tension of the shiny red membrane contrasted with pliancy of the flesh underneath. That moment of first wrapping her fingers around it, squeezing slightly, then shifting her grip to the stem and lifting it. The weight of it, feeling it swing slightly as she lifts it. Pressing her fingers more tightly against the flesh to hold it as her lips initially brush it. The first stroke of her tongue as it curls around  the contours, drawing it between her lips before closing them as the juice fills her mouth.

The moment when taste, smell and touch meet. The slight squelch as she pulls it away, the only sound it makes. A quick flick of her tongue to catch the juice that lingers on her lip. A dainty nibble from the side as her tongue again sweeps along the sweet flesh. Another bite. Anticipation having given flavour, her ability to savour the moment fading as her greed to taste it increases.

Then it is gone. She is left with the stem and tiny bits of pale flesh that cling to it sadly. Dropping it in the bowl, she looks at the pile of strawberries still left and chooses another to begin the process again, her appetite whetted but hardly sated.

The End

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