White pineapple

I walked down the road to get a taste of Rashida's white pineapple.  They only come about two times a year.  It was a full moon.  When I got to her house, I realized the dogs had been barking for a while. I hadn't showered and the sickness smelled for miles.  Rashida popped open the screen door and told me to come in quick.  Inside, a fire burned.  On the table she had cut up the fruit, its juices reflecting the flickering firelight.  I sat down, knowing very well that I might not make it to next pineapple season.  My fingers trembled.  Rashida looked at me like we had just met.  I put my hand on the table, trying to reach for the fruit as casually as possible.  The period between reaching for the pineapple and putting it in my mouth is blurry.  When the fruit entered my mouth, I started to cry.