Oblong and bruised and perfect; the vendor says the rain made them sweeter.
I thumb the powdery bloom and it shines where my touch has been. The bruise is just a map of earlier weather—hail, a tumble in a crate—proof of a life lived outside. He splits one with his pocketknife and the flesh goes from gold to wine near the pit, sweet tugging against tart.
I buy a paper bag’s worth by feel, not by looks. They clack softly together as I walk, and the smell—high, green, almost floral—leaks through the bag and follows me like a tune I nearly remember.
At home I do nothing fancy. A bowl, a rinse, a towel. Eat one over the sink: skin bright with a snap, juice running down my wrist. The stone refuses to let go, a clingstone romance, and I don’t mind. The second I halve for yogurt; the third I slice into a pan with a spoon of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. Heat turns their tartness into a small kind of kindness.
By evening the bruised ones are the best—soft at the wound, honeyed, collapsing into jam with a stir. I save two firm plums for tomorrow, though I know I won’t wait. Fruit like this is weather turned edible. You take it while it’s here.