Stone fruit

Of our many daily rituals, I savored the post-work hunger fix the most. It was a frenzied pantry raid paired with a recap of our great or not-so-great days. It was our end-of-day recalibration. No matter what happened out in the world, we always met back and snacked. We’d stand at the counter, eating straight from bags or off the cutting board, and catch each other up.

We’d swing between topics, and each change in conversation was a shift in fare. Dark chocolate and his walk in the rain at lunch. Sun-dried tomatoes and a cold call from my dad about his friend who is dying from cancer. Knobs off a cheddar block and the butterfly in his car’s grill. The crumby, salty pinch of the last of the tortilla chips and my awkward introduction to the neighbors.

I loved hearing the mundane morsels of his day. I prodded him not to spare any details and licked the plate clean of everything he saw, said, felt, wished, and rejected. It sustained my spirit. We were still new to each other, and each day was an opportunity to learn a new layer, to delve deeper into our love, and to make sense of its suddenness.

We had just relocated for his new job and were settling into our new routines and relationship. We hadn’t been living together before the move, and at that point, it was scary to string together soft and careful words about how much we cared for each other. Even so, moving together for his job was an easy decision. One long drive later, we were in a serious relationship, roommates, and each other’s only friends.

I spent long days alone at home, counting the hours until we could keep each other company in our new world. I tried unpacking some of his boxes to be helpful while he was at work, but it felt as though I was trespassing. I wanted him to come home, pull each piece of his life from the cardboard, and tell me why his belongings belonged here with me.

Grocery shopping got me out of the house and out of my head. Navigating new aisles gave me a sense of purpose, and I entertained myself by guessing his favorites: pretzels or crackers, hummus or salsa, olives or pickles, almonds or cashews. Spring and early summer colored our counter conversations with blueberries and blackberries. The long days brought long evenings that we spent riding bikes to the water where we laid out, read, and drank beer until the sun set.

When stone fruit season arrived, everything felt warm and sticky. Padding around the house alone, I caught the subtle scent of a peach emanating from the hanging macrame basket. I checked its ripeness, pressing my nose and lips into the light bristles to inhale its dank floral notes. Summer had ripened me, too. I felt softened, yielding to his tender touch, unfolding into a wet sweetness for him. I felt impatient for him to come home.

It was a petite feast when he returned. He whirled through the house, pecking my cheek on his way to the kitchen. He grabbed a peach, snapping into the fruit with his teeth. We stood shoulder to shoulder over the sink, trading the gushing orb back and forth. Just smiling and slurping, no talking. We paused to giggle in the stickiness and delight of a golden hour with golden fruit, smacking our lips and each other’s. Juice dripped down to his elbows as he took mouthful after mouthful of me and stone fruit.