an almost religious experience

The nectarines were in rare form today; Mom told me I would die if I ate one. I had already eaten too much though, so I put one on a little plate with a paring knife and set it aside while I read. It's bright red and yellow skin are tempting, and I only get a page farther before I uncurl in the chair and pulled the plate closer. I was skeptical of her praise for the little fruit, but today is the first in weeks of honest-to-goodness summer sun; I take it as a sign to indulge.

You can hear the fibers ripping as I drag the knife through the fleshy nectarine to reveal it's fushia specked, gold flesh. The transparent juice beads on the surface of the cut like sweat, even though we're both protected by by the air conditioning. I carefully hold on to the half I've removed so as not to bruise it and tilt my head to catch the dripping juices in my open mouth. This must be the ambrosia of the gods. Sweet without coating or overpowering the mouth. An overzealous bite squirts nectar all over my arm and the cover of the book I've now forgotten.

At this point I've cut most of the fruit away, but there are slivers left around the pit. I shave them off slowly. I ate the most part of the fruit so greedily that I now want to be able to enjoy the little that is left. And I do.

I call out so Mom can hear me from the next room, "I think I died."