The raisins sitting in my sweaty palm are getting stickier by the minute. They don’t look
particularly appealing, but when instructed by my teacher, I take one in my fingers and examine
it. I notice that the raisin’s skin glistens. Looking closer, I see a small indentation where it once
hung from the vine. Eventually, I place the raisin in my mouth and roll the wrinkly little shape
over and over with my tongue, feeling its texture. After a while, I push it up against my teeth and
slice it open. Then, finally, I chew–very slowly.