The teenage lovers, loitering in the grove, passed each other chestnuts that they found. Due to the furious activity of the squirrels, an unopened nut could only be a freshly fallen one. Sometimes they heard a soft thud behind them (never in front, curiously) and turned to see the green spined planet lying in the grass.
Such sinewy pleasure to open. Finding the seam encouraged by the fall, cracking it on the trunk to widen it; prying the tough green apart with the thumbs, the glossy brown nut lodged in the moist white flesh.
Two in one were lucky, of course. They laughed and kissed, each pocketing one for the bedside table at home.
Three were more rare but less lucky. The third was always smaller, and seemed by its position to belong more to one side than the other; its partner chestnut smaller too, to make room for it. The interloper brought asymmetry, hinting at the difference between freakishness and wonder.
They marvelled at it, for its rarity, but left it for the squirrels.
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