Answer:

Mr. Arya weighed the cucumber in his outstretched hand, fingers curled around it just tight enough to keep grip of the knobbly deep green skin. His fingers easily gripped, it was kinda rubbery really despite the dusting of soil. He knew what it would be like inside, that soft green hue his mother liked to paint the house with, but she had no interest in all that. He didn't care that it would be REFRESHING in yoghurt or give his cheese sandwiches a new flavour over the coming week; his brain was FORMULATING an IDEA far more interesting. It would be over in a flash of course, but what a flash it would be. He climbed the railway bridge and waited for the five-twenty. It would whistle as it passed and he'd get a mouthful of sooty steam - but he didn't care. Timing was everything - drop too soon and it would HIT that tracks in the worst anti-climax ever, drop too late and it would bounce of the new maroon paintwork. He jumped to hear the whistle, it was coming! He turned to see it ROUND the corner, gleaming in the August morning sun. Then he turned back, judging its closeness by the volume of its noise. Just before it entered the bridge he dropped it, saying two "Hail Mary's." He got a fraction of a second to enjoy the explosion of green chunks that had been Mama's biggest cucumber before the smoke swallowed him.