Rotten Fruit

I looked at the fruit, hanging swollen and heavy, from the tree branch, like my breasts after you suckled them.

Reaching for one, I can't help but wonder if the juice is as sweet as yours, after I suckled you.

Pulling my hand back, I decide not to separate the pear from its life support. Not just yet. Not while the memory of you floods my brain and my body with heat, and something akin to hate.

Sitting down under the tree, my back nestled against the rough bark, I remember the day when you told me you wanted to lose "a few pounds" and asked if I would help you. I remember you asking me to find recipes with fruit, pears, especially as you'd always loved them as a kid.

I didn't know at the time that the weight you wanted to lose, was me.

So, like a fucking dumb kid amid her first hot crush, I spent a day Googling recipes for you. A day when I could have been working on my screenplay, of which you never did, nor could, understand my passion for.

Because it wasn't about you. Rather, it was about you wanting me whenever it was good for you. Whenever you felt that insistent twitch between your legs. So, as if I was a ripe piece of fruit, you'd pluck me from the "tree" and toss me in the bushes when you were through, like the spoiled little fuck you were.

My back itches. A gnat, or some other "no-see-um." I rub it back and forth against the bark, luxuriating in the rasp against my soft skin.

You loved my skin. Or so you said. But then, you said a lot of things when we were fucking...compliments and declarations of undying passion that could have been directed toward any woman. I never felt like I was really there, with you. I was floating somewhere up above us, looking down at our bodies, entwined, yet, somehow separate.

Note, I said "fucking." We never made love.

When was it...when did I decide I'd had enough? When I could no longer bear the heat of your hands on my skin, a warmth that I once luxuriated in?

I know. I just don't want to remember. It was the day you left your phone on the dresser while you showered. You always showered immediately after fucking me. I always wondered why. Was I dirty to you? Did I smell bad? Or were you just attempting to erase me as quickly as possible?

That was your first big mistake. As I lay in bed, listening to the water from the shower and imagining you soaping up that once hard body that was just starting to show signs of softening, I heard your phone "buzz."

I sat up in bed, deliberating.

"Should I, or shouldn't I?"

I'd never been one to "spy" on a boyfriend but with that said, my instincts have always been sharp. I've had plenty of practice honing them.

I decided.

As quietly as I could, I slipped out of be and tiptoed to the bureau where your phone lie. Heart beating wildly in my chest, I picked it up.

It was a text. From "Anjelica." The words blurred as I tried to take them in. For a second I thought I was going to be sick.

I breathed in and out, slowly, The water in the shower had turned off so I knew I had to be quick.

"Baby, I can't believe what you did to me last night. My body is still trembling! Can we do it again, soon? Please?"

She'd peppered her texts with hearts and a few "adult" emojis.

I dropped the phone and jumped back into bed.

He came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked.

"A pear tart. Fresh pears, hardly any butter...since you're trying to lose weight (for "Anjelica!") and gluten-free. I think you'll love it."

"Great." He smiled. Fake. How did I not see it, before?

He walked over to the closet.

"Better hustle though," he said. I've got an early morning.

The sun is warm on my face as I let the tree embrace me. I look up at the pear and make a decision.

I get up, slowly, as my knees are stiff from sitting in one position for so long.

On my tiptoes, and stretching as high as I can, I pluck the ripe pear from the tree branch.

"Just in time, too," I think. Not much longer for this world.

I roll it around in my hands as its scent inhabits my being. Everything else is forgotten as I take a bite and the sweetness overtakes me. I let the juice dribble over my chin and onto my hand, where it mingles with the traces of blood that I missed. Earlier. That morning.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2021. All Rights Reserved.