Falling in Love

A triumvirate, a holy trinity of truly juicy apricots surprised me on the street: such smoothness, such freshness to be sitting upon a container for the rotten and forgotten. I imagined picking one up, my fingers instinctively searching for a sore or bruise—but there were none. The grove of fragile white hairs circumnavigated, uninterrupted, around the face of the fruit.

I felt warm liquid flow inside of my cheeks. This saliva of anticipation is not the same viscous bubbly spit used to swallow a pill. This is clear. This is the unique warmth that prepares my mouth, my entire body, for something juicy and sweet...and extraordinary.

In my mind, I touched the apricot to my open mouth. The gentle fur teased the grooves on my lips. My front teeth searched for the natural crevasse between the two hemispheres of the fruit.

I pierced the skin.

The engorged orange-pink flesh leaked nectar and pulp into my lips. My tongue and teeth worked to skin the mound of pure apricot flesh from its peel. I swallowed the pieces. My throat made the sound like I was gulping water. My throat moved more smoothly than when it is swallowing jell-o.

I examined the hole my teeth left behind. The blood of the apricot osmotically clotted its wound, like water filling a hole dug in shoreline sand. I sipped the excess juice from the divot and cherished the sound and the flavor. I loved it.

But I awoke to the smell of the trash. Garbage is composed of seemingly random parts, but the smell is always predictable. Maybe there is a waxy-paper wrapper with scalene triangles of melted cheese. Perhaps there is a clear, plastic cup with half a shot of melted ice at the bottom. And maybe, just maybe, there is some rotting fruit: delectable flesh decaying from its state of perfection.

The perfect summer apricot, waiting for me on the street, stays perfect only in anticipation. And with that, I penitently smiled, leaving the trio intact.