“It tastes like candy,” I mused. I’ve never tasted a melon so sweet.
My colleague Ardian perfectly summarized the fruit’s complexity.
“It’s a symphony!” he said, stabbing another piece out of the communal office bowl.
After we eat both melons, a scurry of collective clearing away of the dishes commences.
The melon’s melody intermingles with the clinking in the sink, the pitter pattering of feet walking to and fro, the telephone, and the sounds of traffic from the window.
Dijana begins to make Turkish coffee cup by cup.
The rest of us sit chatting round the red sofas.
There’s still a piece of fli (aka flia or flija) on the table, a painstakingly made traditional Albanian crepe-pie, along with the spinach and leek pitas and tzatziki. It was all purchased at the bakery down the street. And it’s delicious.
Eli is reading the newspaper and Fatmir pulls up a chair.
The coffee sits in everyone’s cups like chocolate soup, and the chatting continues until the ground coffee sifts to the bottom. One by one everybody begins to sip.
Then Rrita slips away to answer the phone, and the cups begin to empty.
Eventually we wander back to our desks.
Just another day at the office.