perdita

This is an exercise born of appetites. Or, it is born of vitamin deficiency and loneliness. Either way I decided to write something containing a number of relished sensory experiences.

The sky is a perfectly piercing blue with a handful of white fluff scattered for decoration, and there is heat, blindingly hot with the occasional breeze curling the ends of her hair. She stops, stretching up on her toes, reaching as high as she can and then backwards, yipping for the pleasure of it, giggling as she almost fails to balance on one foot, hip meet table corner? Not today. Tangling her hand in sleepmatted hair, pulling up a southward creeping tank strap, she pads over the cool linoluem to the fridge, relishing the cold damp air as she opens the door. Illuminated by blocks of sunlight on the floor and an automatic lightbulb she contemplates her sustenance.

Fingers grazing bread and jam, crisp toast with sticky sweet preserves, too much cooking and effort, too hot. Or milk for cereal but it is too hot for dairy prodcucts to linger in a bowl. She pulls open the crisper and gazes at the contents with delight, these velvet skins of burgundy fading to red and orange. She strokes them gently, seeking soft flesh without making it, she wants ripeness, not bruised fruit. Gliding her finger along the surface, she gently tests for give, and finally selects one, shutting the drawer with her foot, the door with an errant swing of her pantied hips.

She runs the faucet, smoothing away any excess fuzz in the rush of cool water. Knife and plate accompany her to the table, just out of the sun. She keeps the plate in her lap, legs propped on the tables edge as she runs the knife around the circumfrence to the pit, flicking her tongue over the blade as she finishes. She takes each half in her hands and slowly twists until they give way.

She sinks her teeth unto the very edge of the fruit, inhaling the sweet, tangy smell, flesh shinging jewel-bright. She rolls the small piece over her tongue, the texture is soft and smooth, drippingly sweet, the flavor is sublime. She smiles at the protest grumbled from her stomach, and bit into the fruit with wild abandon. Deeper bites, juice dripping, sucking the pit clean, and then all too quickly she was done.

The fruit lingers in the cool stickiness on her face and hands, a single drop on her breast. She runs her thumb over it and sucks away the last bit of juice, her other hand cupping her hipbone, fingertips comfortably snug in the waistband of her panties.

She chuckles to herself at the sheer simple joy of the past five minutes as she makes her way over linoluem and itchy carpet back to the cooling hum of drawn blinds and a ceiling fan on high. She curls back into bed, sticky and grinning, content.