I can smell the clementine you were just eating. Her sweet juice has already dried along your fingers, making them sticky and perfumed. You have a habit of always eating the tiny sweet fruit whole, as though pulling it apart, segment by segment wouldn’t afford you the same satisfaction of consuming it in large mouthfuls.

In a way, I’m jealous of the clementine. You have her almost everyday. When you prepare for your day, you think of her, finding her every morning, delicately placing her close to you before you leave home in anticipation of the time you’ll later spend together. Yes, I am indeed jealous. You think of her throughout your morning, wondering when you’ll have her, when you’ll discard her protective layers and enjoy her flesh. It is her you search for when you can take the hunger no more, only she can satiate you at that moment.

I watch you toy with her, squeezing her in your large hands, cradling her, rubbing over her with your thumbs, as though you were looking for the perfect place to begin your attack. When you’re confident you’ve found the ripest part of her, you tear in, satisfied that you were right, once again. At times, when you are too eager, you pierce her flesh and her nectar spills out over your fingers, you quickly lick the droplets off your hand, determined not to lose any part of her. When you’ve removed all her layers and she lays in your hand vulnerable and enticing, you raise her to the small space between your nose and top lip, gently rubbing your top lip over her smooth mounds. You trace your tongue over one of her sections, tasting the delicate flavour that seems almost begging to be released the closer you bring her to your mouth. You position your fingers around her back, pushing her forward to your open dry mouth. You raise your eyes to look around, you want this moment to be yours and clementine’s alone. She enters your thirsty mouth and explodes, seemingly before your teeth even touch her, almost as if from the pressure alone. You bite into her and take what you want from her without much effort; she is so ripe that she gives away to your demanding mouth very easily. You stop and reflect, removing her from your mouth to look at her now, raw, exposed, and opened. A momentary touch of disappointment overcomes you, as you look at her used beauty, half of what she was. The thought passes and you take the rest of her in with the next bite, which you always seem to enjoy just a touch less than the first.

I wait until you are done before coming to see you, I offer you a tissue for your wet hands but you refuse, preferring to lick them clean, one by one, enjoying your clementine all over again.