“Sweet, juicy honeydew… must have more…” Sarah mumbled dreamily, fork poised over the last piece of melon on her plate. The afternoon sun streamed through her kitchen window, casting a ethereal glow on the pale green fruit.
Something felt different about this particular honeydew. Where did she get it again? The farmers market? No, that strange old woman with knowing eyes at the night bazaar…
Flash
“Welcome to 1922!” a cheerful voice announced.
Sarah blinked rapidly, finding herself seated at an ornate café table. A dapper gentleman in a bowler hat was smiling at her from across white linen.
“James Joyce, at your service,” he said with a slight bow. “I see you’ve discovered one of my experimental honeydew melons. Quite the portal between worlds, wouldn’t you say?”
“I… what… how…” Sarah’s thoughts tumbled over each other like excited puppies. The cafe bustled around them - women in dropped-waist dresses, the clinking of china cups, jazz music drifting through cigarette smoke.
“Stream of consciousness, my dear! The only proper way to experience time travel,” Joyce declared. “Now then, shall we discuss your dependence on interdimensional fruit?”
“My what?” Sarah’s fork clattered to the table. “I just really like honeydew!”
“Ah, but do you like it, or does it like you? Are you consuming the melon or is the melon consuming your very reality?” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully.
Sarah’s mind whirled. Memories of countless honeydew purchases flooded in - seeking out the perfectly ripe ones, hoarding them in her fridge, that inexplicable sadness when finishing the last bite…
“Oh god, I’m a honeydew addict aren’t I?” she groaned.
“There there,” Joyce patted her hand. “The first step is admission. Though I must say, of all the dimensional portals one could get addicted to, honeydew is rather charming. Much better than that chap who kept eating time-traveling turnips.”
A waiter approached with a familiar pale green slice on a silver tray.
“Your usual, Mr. Joyce?”
“Not today, Edward. I believe my friend here needs it more.”
Sarah stared at the honeydew, its sweet aroma teasing her senses. “But if I eat it…”
“You’ll return home, yes. But perhaps with a new perspective?” Joyce winked. “Sometimes we need a little interdimensional intervention to appreciate our simple pleasures properly.”
Sarah picked up her fork with determination. “You’re right. When I get back, I’m going to start a honeydew addicts support group.”
“Splendid idea! Though maybe call it ‘Melon Enthusiasts Anonymous’ - sounds more dignified.”
They shared a laugh as Sarah took her first bite. The familiar sweetness filled her mouth and…
Flash
Sarah found herself back in her kitchen, afternoon sun still streaming through the window. Her phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: “MEA Meeting - 7PM @ Community Center.”
She smiled, pushing away her plate with the last piece of honeydew still intact. Sometimes the best way to overcome dependence was to share the journey with others who understood. Even if they might not believe the part about James Joyce.
Though she could have sworn she heard distant jazz music as she closed her front door.