STORYTELLING

Rotten Fruit

The taste still lingers

I look up 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 requesting that I find recipes with fruit, pears, especially as you’d always loved them as a child.

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 novel, 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 tree 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. You never even took a piss without bringing your phone with you. I used to think that was funny. Then again, I used to be stupid.

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 lover but with that said, my instincts have always been sharp. Even though in the past, I’ve chosen to ignore them.

I decided.

As quietly as I could, I slipped out of bed, my naked body immediately erupting into goosebumps, 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.

Hand, trembling, I replaced 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 it's gluten-free. I think you’ll love it. It’s ready. All I have to do is warm up a slice.”

“Great.” He smiled. Fake. So fake. How did I not see it, before?

He walked over to the closet.

“Better hustle though,” he said. “I’ve got a busy morning.”

The sun is warm on my face as I let the tree embrace me. A lover who will never leave. Never betray my trust. One that will still be here long after I am dust.

I look back up at the pear and make a decision.

I get up, slowly, my knees 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 fecund scent inhabits my being. Everything else is forgotten as I bite into the pear and its 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 is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her short films have screened at The Pan African Film Festival in Cannes (awarded “best short”), the Nashville Film Festival, the Honolulu Film Festival, the Los Angeles Film School, New Filmmakers New York, and New Filmmakers Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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