Tell all your friends to come buy watermelons from Miss Alexandra! They is the best! Miss Alexandra tells me in a loud voice, as if wanting to convince me of a truth I already know.

It's already august and the nights are starting to get chilly. Miss Alexandra sells watermelons on the sidewalk. Her temporary, summer shelter is nothing more than a simple double bed for her and her underage niece, a few old blankets and some thick plastic sheets as curtains for this most royal of beds. The big heap of watermelons, like faithful servants to their queen, rest silently at her feet. The whole palace is covered with a green canvas fixed on four metallic poles.

But weren't you higher up the street last year? I ask her one day. Yes, but someone else has taken that nice place this year, she complains. Money! I say. Only God knows! she replies. She waves her hand and the smile reappears on her weather-torn face. I sense no hard feelings. That nice place she's referring to is further up the street, in a more affluent part of the neighborhood, which translates to more clients. Otherwise, it is similar to this one, a front yard of an old house where the owner has removed the fence to make room for his temporary summer guest, for a fee.

I too went shopping among the opulent people for a while, I admit. Miss Mariana was the source of my watermelons for three years in a row. Until she sold me bad fruit. Even now I cannot understand it. We were getting along so well. She used to tell me about her little kids, about how in the winter she must go and work in foreign lands for strangers because the money from this business is not enough, about how, back in her home village, I only hear the chirping of birds when I wake up, but here only cars and the traffic. It was meant to be a lasting relationship. But those tasteless movies we watched as teenagers always end just when the hardships begin, the living together, the arguing, the narcissistic tendencies. The downfall began with a yellow melon. A small bad patch on its side. No problem, I said to myself alone in the kitchen, there's nothing a good knife can't fix. I cut away the vile part and enjoyed the rest, ignoring the signs. But the next one was a complete letdown. Less honey, more flatness. And the next one was spoiled completely. Now, I wouldn't have felt cheated by my lady if I had chosen the melons myself. It would have only revealed my lack of experience. But she advised against my choices and, with a hand touching the feet of God, she swore her decisions were better. One can only accept an insult so many times. Eventually, I had to walk away.

The next watermelon-affair, against my better judgement, was with Miss Mariana's sister further up the street. In my defense, The Sister rents out a big private parking lot and prides herself with the biggest pile of melons in the whole neighborhood and in a top location, too. But, as a result of that, The Sister's melons are the most expensive, she is as interested in clients as a supermarket clerk and, more importantly, she has the highest ratio of unripe fruit of them all. Looks is not all, that much I've come to realize as I've stepped timidly into adulthood.

And so, after years of failed attempts and broken dreams, I now make my visits to this shabby palace for the weekly ten kilo watermelon. I completely trust this Queen to choose them for me. She goes tap-tap, tap, tap-tap from watermelon to watermelon. Some are lighter in color, some dark green, some bigger, others smaller, some have green little tails, others have brown ones, some have those yellow patches on them, a sign of the countless nights they've spend in complete silence under the stars. I've watched all the tutorials I could find on how to pick the perfect watermelon. But Miss Alexandra doesn't follow the official guidelines. She breaks all the rules and only taps each with her fingers. Usually, she declares victory within ten seconds, this is the one! At first, unwilling to lay my heart at her feet so easily, I was skeptical. No, that is not ripe, I would say, not very convinced I know what I'm talking about. She insisted convincingly. So I've let myself adrift, like lovers float into each-other arms, and trusted her word. After a few hours in the fridge, when I crack it open, it is juicy, red, sweet and fresh. She is right. Every single time. They is the best!

Little by little, we've befriended each-other. She told me about her life in the small village, working the land, about living 400 kilometers away from home three months a year sleeping slightly better than a vagrant under a bridge and I, about my life in the big city and about the loneliness among so many strangers. And if, after a few encounters I've made the impertinence of asking her about the number of watermelons she sells in a day and she, naturally, refused to share with me that secret, now, by the summer's end, when the bright lights of the past few joyous months are still fresh in my heart, she confesses to me. I now know her secret. But I will not share it. I gave her my word.

Just before I leave on day, she stops me, come, I'll give you something nice. She goes to her yellow subjects, smaller and perfumed, with which I don't usually mingle. They are like honey, she assures me, but a bit overripe. I understand what she means. Clients want perfect fruit like in the supermarket. I've heard this complaint countless times in the peasant markets around here. She takes a big one out and shows me a small patch on its side, look, this part is spoiled, but it's nothing, you cut it out and the rest is pure honey. One euro, she says. For the whole one? I ask with skepticism. Yes, the whole melon! One euro! I can't argue with that. She doesn't put it on the counter, we just exchange our goods and that's that. Back home, I'm curious. Three kilos. Miss Mariana would have charged me six times as much for this amount of sweetness. I cut out the really small patch with my knife and, this time there is no trickery involved. The rest of it is pure honey, just like she said.

That night, before I fall asleep, Miss Alexandra's warm voice, her smile and words appear into my thoughts for no apparent reason. It has been a while since someone has warmly offered me something nice. No tricks, no double-speak, no expectations. I suddenly realize I needed it without knowing it. It's a tender feeling. My emotions well up. And then, out of nowhere, a tear joyfully crawls down my cheek.

The nighttime temperature drops to 5° a few days later. I freeze: Miss Alexandra! I visit the palace and my fears are confirmed, yes dear, yes, very cold! All my bones hurt. I'm stiff, I can barely move today, Miss Alexandra tells me as she stumbles like a toddler. I'll bring you a sleeping bag. It will be cold again tonight, I tell her. A sleeping bag? What would I do with a sleeping bag? she laughs shyly. You sleep in it, so you don't get cold and stiff again! I say. She is clearly embarrassed. Only kids sleep in sleeping bags, she tries to deflect me. I don't know where she got that idea, but I feel that her emotions have conquered all her sense. There is no arguing with her now.

Before I get out that evening, I take the sleeping bag with me. Miss Alexandra, sitting on her small plastic throne, searches for the invisible sunset hidden somewhere behind the gray concrete buildings and waits for her customers. Her business is open 24/7. If I'd wake her up in the middle of the night, she'll gladly sell me a watermelon. What's that? she asks me as she gets up from her chair. Well, the sleeping bag! She's still timid. I step into her home under the green cover, open the sleeping bag and show it to her. It's as new. I've only used it three or four times. She doesn't say anything. It's big, see? It's not for kids. If you get too warm at night, you open the zipper down here for some air, ok? I explain to her like to a kid. And then, finally! I finally get a timid "yes, ok." She takes the bag, puts it on her bed and disappears. She has a client. But it's too late. From the corner of her always happy eye I caught the sparkle of a tear. I step out and leave. Leave my queen behind. I will be seeing her next year.