Moisture Versus The Fuzz

I squeeze the thing to see if it's ready. If the fleshy body resists, I'll try another. There's a tenderness here though, I'm just checking. I don't want to bruise the thing. I want it to be deliciously ripe when it's ready with as few soft pocks from prodding. I'll forgive a score from the branch it grew on, or a split from overripeness, but the thought of my own fingers bruising the thing the day before it's ready to be consumed is shudder worthy. With the sun reclining in the sky I take my selected peach to the bedroom, and lounge out. 

Some scientists believe the fuzz on a peach acts as a barrier to lift beads of moisture from it's flesh to prevent rot. All to save the chances of the seed to take root in the earth and spindle outward, sucking nutrients from it's terra crib.

I pierce the skin and let the juices flow across my jaw and down my neck. My skin tries to perform the peach's trick. Fine hairs, some dark, try to lift under the sweet fluid and falter under it's weight. My skin doesn't have to fear the wetness, it doesn't threaten my survival, it fortifies me.

The dripping, running, sliding sensation is welcome. I encourage the flow and admire the tones of the torn skin, lit by the last moments of day. The whole composition is warmed by Brooklyn Summer and there is no escape from the heat.