You're a rotten peach. Get it?

Under the faucet the peach goes. Over the peach the water goes. Gavin Masterson prepares the fruit for his mouth and the water runs off of the fuzz and down the drain. The peach, previously dull and soft, illuminates as it is massaged. Scrubbing illuminates and the peach grows more promising to his eyes. "How good you will taste, how colorful you become as I get to know you. I know you will be juicy and I know I will wash my hands when I finish." The bruises on the fruit are amplified, suddenly visible, more imperfect, darker and bolder they grow under the water. The reds are the Sun. The yellows are the Sun. The bruises are the bruises.

Flick the hands dry. Dry the hands dry. The first bite, the unavoidable suck and slurp. "Strings, cellular, I hope to not get so sticky." Gavin leans over the sink to finish the fruit. Suck and slurp. The bruises have no taste, his mouth and tongue ignore his eye's order of prominence. A sweet cellular, a sweet string, a pinch of sweet and the juice pops from the fruit and spits on his hands. The reds are the Sun, the yellows are the Sun the cellular is the Sun the bruises are the Sun and it sits soft in his mouth far from his eyes.