Imperfect peaches

They were far from perfect in the way their half moon crescents shone against the sun. Tiny black blemishes dotted their skin, and peach fuzz lint balls collected in their crevices and folds. They'd been home three days now, and still were offering no indication that they would soon soften.

I ate one anyways, picked it up with all its dark and hairy imperfections and threw it onto the chopping board. Stiff, it lay like a stone, taunting the knife. But when the blade came down, it yielded easily. Slices slipped from the pit and through my fingers into the awaiting bowl; breakfast came quickly that morning.

Against the sunshine on the table, they glowed jack-o-lantern orange against the blue of the walls and the newfound sky. They were sweet—sweeter than expected—despite their pock-marked skins and rigid flesh. It was a good reminder, one of those back to school lessons. After all, it's what's on the inside that counts.


Settie said...

you're a peach

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