Inside The Peach There Is A Stone by Louise Morriss
His car key slips from her hand into the gutter. There’s a bruise on her wrist and dirt in the folds of her palms. She enters the shop searching for shower gel: peach blossom, for renewal.
They met in a bar not far from here. It was all sharp edges, metallic lines, slices of white light jabbing at the floor. He was sharp too with his tailored suit, trimmed beard and lean limbs. He told her, that first night, she was like a peach: a gorgeous, sugary, curvy thing.
She let him take her out the following night. At a restaurant near his office he ordered the steak and she watched him slice into the pink meat while she picked at her flakes of fish. They skipped dessert and went back to his. She let him take her and afterwards while she rested her head on his downy pillow, he licked his lips and told her she was succulent and juicy. Luscious, he declared. He made her feel so good.
The next time she saw him she wore a velvet jacket, orangey-red in colour, over a tight, taut creamy-white dress. A peach in human form. They drove out of the city, parked up, and he ran his firm hands over her softness. She exuded a delicate, fruity aroma and he breathed her in, filling his lungs with her scent. He said he couldn’t get enough of her and she felt herself clinging to him, the way peach flesh sticks to the stone. He picked bits of her from between his teeth and she laughed, beginning to love him.
At a swanky event he wore a dinner jacket, suave and cool, and kept her glass topped up with fizz. She shimmered and bubbled, and he said everyone was looking, wondering who she was. She told him peach blossom appears on the tree before its leaves unfurl; flowering on bare branches, a rare and fragrant thing. He traced his tongue up the side of her neck and said he’d tend her so she would blossom and ripen on his tree.
A day later, giddy with hope-filled plans, she went to his place. A jagged woman, tall and slender, brisk and business-like, was leaving his house. Watching, her insides began to swell and spoil, to decay and rot.
When she met him next, she didn’t tell him what she’d seen. She said let’s drive to the orchard, and beside the stream she peeled away her outer layers and ran into the water. He followed her—she knew he would—and splashed her while sickly sweet words oozed from his lying lips. Her flesh grew thick with hurt and using her delicious bulk she forced him under. He snatched and fought, but she held him down until his final bubble rose and burst.
Scrambling up the muddy bank she knew it was all his fault; he should have handled her with care. Peaches, after all, bruise easily.
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