A peach

A ball of burnt orange and red felt is clasped within my hands, I can smell its fragrance it taunts me to take a bite, I feel obliged. Slowly I bite the over ripe fruit and the juice trickles down my chin, drenching my white blouse but I do not care, for the moment and those moments after is sheer heavenly bliss.

The ball of felt has teased all of my senses, the furriness caresses my lips, and the fruit is tangy, watery and cool on my tongue and in my mouth, the fragrance appetizing, alluring, and enveloping and the sight soul clenching.

A slight embarrassment takes me over as I hear the lapping of the juices around my mouth, a little laughter of my friends who’ve noted my secret pleasure with the summer snack, abashed I take a napkin and wipe myself clean, that fruit was simply, perfectly supreme.

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