Raspberry Juice

No use crying over spilled raspberry juice. Photo by LB.

The boy knocked the bottle over with his elbow. The thick red juice spilled across the table, dripping onto the cracked linoleum floor. His mother sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and fetched a rag. "No use crying over it," she said. The boy stared at the spreading stain. It looked like sticky wet paint had been spilled. He thought of the raspberries growing fat and juicy. The sun on his back when he picked them and the way they burst between his teeth. Now they were wasted. His father took a sip of coffee, eyes still on the newspaper. "Next time, be careful," he said. The boy nodded. He would.