She was tempted to say that her vagina tasted like strawberries. Of course she couldn’t be certain. But, she reasoned, her boyfriend had not contradicted her theory, and so it was probable. She looked at him, smoking next to their rusty kitchen sink, and smiled at his tattered jacket. She perched on their wooden table. She swung her legs and picked up an orange. The washing machine juddered rhythmically. She tipped her head to one side, like a cocker-spaniel, and breathed in the smoke that spiralled from the orange tip of his cigarette. He looked at her through the smoke and thought she was as graceful as smoke. She wished she hadn’t bitten off her nails, it made peeling oranges very difficult.

He was tempted to say she was as soft as a peach. He began to utter this compliment but remembered he had a peach at the bottom of his bag. It had been in his bag for over a week. He told her instead that he had missed her. She rubbed her eyes and studied his freckles. They looked like tiny apple seeds.

‘I’ve got orange in my eye!’ she exclaimed. She stuck her thumb into its red corner and infected it with even more citrus. He stubbed his cigarette in the sink.

‘Stop touching it.’ He wanted to dab her eye with the sleeve of his jacket but didn’t. He thought the material would muddy it with a dirt worse than orange juice. He led her to the sink and told her to splash water on her face. The tap water ran brown then clear. 

She dried her eyes on the hem of his t-shirt and stared up at him. She wondered if he’d noticed that her eyes were lopsided. Her irises were so pale a blue that whenever he looked into them he wondered how anyone could associate that colour with sadness. He sat down on the table and plucked a banana from the bowl. He bit around a brown bruise. 

She was tempted to confess that she had missed the warmth of his brown eyes. She hoped the rest of her life was as sweet as this segment. He put his arms around her waist. Her mouth opened in a yawn. Her front two teeth were wonky. She thought she could smell potassium on his breath. With her little finger she traced the pale blue veins wandering beneath his pale skin. The washing machine juddered rhythmically. 

He was tempted to confess that the plump girl in his hotel room had eaten five grapes out of a bunch of six. He vividly remembered the dimple on her lower back and her pear-shaped bum. He folded up the banana skin and said nothing. He lit another cigarette. She unearthed half a plum from their fridge and threw its stone in the sink. The plum was bruised and tender. She laughed at the pink droplets that trickled down her chin.