Warm flesh
Mid-afternoon light flooded the kitchen in an unapologetic way. The wood floors were warm under my bare feet. The oven sat quiet, empty and waiting. I leaned my hips against the center island and reached towards a peach resting in the fruit bowl. I clenched my fingers around it, pulsing a couple of times. It yielded gently.
I pulled a plate down from the wooden cabinet and slid a knife out of the heavy drawer. I sliced through the peach halfway, two, three, four times creating eight perfect slices.
I took a bite and let my tongue surrender to the sweet tang.
M entered the kitchen, and eyeing the plate asked if he can have a slice. I nodded my head, mouth too full of juices to speak.
He stretched towards the plate and took a bite, slurping and sucking. His face fills as he says, “a peach might be my favorite fruit.”
I look at him while reaching for another piece and say, “yeah, it’s mine, too.”
This is a newsletter of the images and writing that unravel beneath every moment, written by me. Thank you for being here <3