friday

Did I tell you about the peaches? I saw them there, these Hudson Valley beauties, in baskets, three dollars or so for the entire bunch of them. I stood in the pouring rain, and handed my bills to the woman at the counter. She pushed her hair behind her ears. No, she had never been to Spain, she told the man in the straw hat, who told her that he had just returned, that he was back now, that he was home. She looked away from him. No, she had never traveled to Europe, not even to New York City, she said, but her children had, and her neighbor had, and she looked at me with my dripping hair and took the watermelon from me, placed it on the scale, and then the cantaloupe, and the berries, same price as the peaches, but fewer of them. She said that it was not supposed to rain today, but here we were, the puddles now flooding the parking lot as I ran out with my bags and tossed them in the back, rushed to get in myself, and wrapped a beach towel  around my wet hair, and started the car.

I drove, drove on, forgot the peaches, turned down WFUV now in the driving rain, music now news, cars slow in front, cars fast behind me, the rain slowing, then stopping, then spitting, then sunny on the road that wound beside the railroad tracks, few cars, radio, “She Moves On” sings Paul Simon, little direction, the peaches now fragrant in the back of the car, so enticing that I pulled off and grabbed one, bit into it, bit my lip, juice running down my face in a sudden burst of sweet pain. I missed you then.

I missed you in the hot car, steam running off the streets as the sun hit once again, the corn green and tall here–nowhere else this year–and sparkling now, leaves hanging with the weight of the water, and again those peaches, I would feed one to you.

I would hold the peach so you could take a greedy bite from it, lick the juices from my fingertips, from my mouth, the sticky fruit no matter, in the heat, on a roadside, your salty rough face, calloused hands, shirt rolled up to your elbows, brown brawn, I want you. I want you there, that day, want the heat, and the clenching tight desire in my gut, the sweet lust for you, your lust for me, your company, and yes, sweet flesh, want you dripping down my face.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s