Fruit Bowl

 I remember the picking, I not yet ripe; the hard shelf beneath me and my sisters all huddled close, attached by the brown hardness of our heads, yellow-green bodies splayed out lazily. I remember how the hands would grab, pull, stroke, squeeze. Some hands were careful, some aggressive so that we would bruise, the wounds of previous lovers marring our tender skins so that others desired us less.

We longed for it, but dreaded it, that touch by human hands, to be caressed, chosen because we looked the most delicious of our fellows, the right age. Some like ‘em young, and some go for the older ones, the ones that are starting to show their age in the tanning, browning, wrinkling of their skin. Those humans we appreciate, on the off chance we’re not coveted younger.

But mostly, the waiting is what makes it hard. A week is almost a lifetime of waiting, it feels so long. I know it is not so for them, the humans, but I can’t help wanting them to hurry, to pick me up, even though I’m still green, to choose me!

I am separated from some of my sisters, their bodies ripped from ours, creating a savage tear at our tops. But it was worth it, because I am been chosen, and that firm grip as I’m held, used as leverage, fingers tight, are what I’ve wanted for so long and yet painfully teasing. I am put in a clear bag, demure, where I can watch and not be felt, except through a thin layer of chastity. Then I am handled roughly by another human before my human, mine, takes me home.

Then, more waiting.

I watch her move around the house, from where I lie with the other fruit. I know I shouldn’t be here, they don’t like me, their flesh aging all the more quickly purely because I am here. Their hate makes them ugly. I have seen her open her mouth, hold the fruit to her lips and kiss them, taste them, and I cannot help but desire it for myself. The grapefruit, my envy, she holds to her nose and enjoys his scent. I need to be held, stroked, caressed, tasted like the others, and yet she waits.

I am alone now. My sisters and the other hateful fruit went before me, and I am the last. I see her come towards me, and finally her hand closes around the curved shaft of my long, thick body. She stroked softly a bruised area, as though to heal me; I have waited so long, just for her to do that, to run her fingers over my ridges. Her other hand reached to my head, lips curving in anticipation, but as she wraps her hand around my head I lose sight of her.

The next thing I know is pain. She has snapped my top, the thick skin at my neck gaping, much of my tender flesh softened, some now mush. Oh, it hurts! She delicately peels back my skin, starting at the head, and I am naked in a way I never thought could happen; skin curling at my waist, wreathed in agony. And now, when she raises me to her lips, I realise there will be no kiss, and the tasting will not be seductive but torturous. Then I know nothing but the throes of torment when those pearly white teeth are driven softly, slowly into my pale, naked flesh.