She had found the glass container beneath her stuff in the basement just this morning, and was curious about how it would taste like. The plum, which had been stored for some years, had turned its color from the initial bright green to the now dark brown. Its juice, too, slipped a trace of darkness in it.
These plums, made by Lo and her mother, had been sitting idle, gathering dust in the darkest, dampness corner of the house, absorbing the coolest chill of the winter and hottest burn of the summer, though the glossy bottle had persevered the contents inside well enough they weren't spoiled. At least when Lo torn away the few coats of clothes and pried open the covering lid, it didn't gave the smell of rotten alcohol, or that godforsaken flavor of the trench feet her father carried around. However, it did give out that irritating sourness that had Lo's nose contracted at first contact.
Lo ran upstairs and came back with a cleaning cloth in her hand. With a few wipes, the plums juggled in the light of the day. She lifted it off the floor easily and brought it to ground level. It was then put on the table, where the sun beamed brightly.
Lo rocked the container lightly on the table, a little push here and there. The round, fat plums swam in the iodine water, crashing into each other.
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