First dance with a Pomegranete

She saw it sitting on the shelf. It was perfect. Shades of red speckled with pink spots as if hand painted by God. He dipped a paintbrush into the paint of life and threw it at his trees. So random, she thought, her hand ran along the curvature of the pomegranate. Its color accentuated by a soft, slow fade from bright red into the dark, fire burnt red. Hard, sharp pentacles jutted outward against her soft, delicate hand. She's never had one, not a real one. They've been blended into drinks and in folded into breads but she holds the pomegranate in her hand and realizes—Persephone had the right idea—this is lust.