It's nearly the end of lychee season and only now I have fresh ones after like forever. I don't mean fresh ones all dainty and packaged in plastic Waitrose cartons but those out of a wobbly wooden box sold by an toothless uncle at the pasar malam (night market). You can even smell their sweet perfume before tearing open the nobbly shell that's like exotic red reptile skin. White translucent flesh wraps a shiny ebony seed and I can't help its juice dripping down my wrist, just like when I was a kid.
I eat about twenty and tell my mum I've had enough. For now.