At the Pit of Things
By Beatrix Zwolfer
I think that I love apricots because they feel like your hands. Small enough to fit in mine, right at the pit of my palm. My thumb brushing over cool roundness, that feathering of hairs against the skin. Delicate soft, these. I cup them close to keep from bruising.
You spoke to me once about your brother, who you have not seen in twelve years, spoken to in six. I used to call him on birthdays, you said—his and yours both, a biannual effort—but he stopped picking up, and then the number got disconnected, like the line forgot who I was, even though I was its most consistent visitor.
Teeth—splitting the thin, gushing inside with juice. It is this sweetness that brings the thing life, that makes me want to hold it in my palm until temperature slips away, my own hand cold with wanting, pearling sweat in its crevices.
The number you have dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is temporarily out of service. Please hang up and try again.
I said, because I did not understand, because my own brother was at home, practicing baseball swings with my mother in the lick of grass we called a park: Did he do it on purpose? Leave you behind?
Apricot fuzz, if you catch it wrong on your tongue, can make your back clench with shivers between the shoulder blades. Chalkboards prompt the same effect. I want to itch my skin until the sensation flees. Peaches, which have longer fur than apricots, make me want to strip down to the bone.
Who would ever do something like that on purpose? You turned away.
Cherries in the bowl between us; we were supposed to be sharing. The ceramic was tooth-hard and clinked against your nails when you reached for and into it, eating one-by-one. The pips of stone you spat back into the bowl, each still wet from your mouth. And when this was done you pushed it back over to me.
One time, I said, I’ll try the custard, to the waitress at a restaurant. I thumbed the script on the menu, the spot where it said the dessert was full of eggs, and I wondered how such things could be coaxed into tasting sweet.
When you passed me the cherry bowl, it was noon, so your hands caught the full light of the sun. They were gold with the stuff. When I buy apricots, I always pick the ones with the deepest blush—the pinks fringing into the oranges.
No, she won’t, you said, concerning the custard, but I will. And, please, serve it with spoons.
Your brother, who was the one who taught me how to roller skate, left home when you were still too young to know he wasn’t coming back. He tried to teach you too, but you always cried when you skinned your knees. I think he was afraid of dropping you, that if he chose not to hold on, then he never could.
As we waited, I twisted the corner of my napkin around my finger. It cinched my circulation, turned the tip pink before ripening to plum. I said, Why couldn’t I have one too? What if it is not enough?
Cherry pits, unrobed, have a flavor you can taste without biting. Those ones in the bowl cloyed the back of my throat. That is how people choke, you know; it only takes one wrong swallow.
You could, you said, spreading your own napkin across your lap. You could have asked again. No one would have stopped you.
Scars ripple my knees—concrete echoes of skin split raw. I bought knee pads too late to save them.
There was a raspberry on top of the custard, and you ate this while I ate the blueberries. The top was caramelized gold, and we cut it with spoons—first you, and then me.
I convinced you, once, to skate around that thatch of a park near my house. You didn’t know how to balance, so I held your hand—my thumb pressed in the center of your palm. When you fell and I caught you, your knuckles blanched white. Tooth enamel. Egg shell. The front wheels on your skate spun against the air. They were still turning when you took the skates off. We finished the sidewalk. At my house, you threw away your socks—the dirt smothering their soles: too thick for washing.
Right before they go bad, apricots blush deep and orange. They taste sweetest at this time, and the fruit falls away from the pit like meat from a bone. I eat late apricots over my sink. So the juice can dribble down my chin, and I don’t need to worry about catching it.
Your hand around the spoon was pinching. The spoon wavered in this hold, but the custard didn't fall off. It had feet, that dessert. You waited as I scooped a bite the size of a yolk. On the table, your empty hand rested face down, the dark grain of the wood obscuring the center.
Beatrix Zwolfer is a current MFA candidate at the University of Idaho. Her work has appeared in publications such as Glass Mountain, Wilderness House Literary Review, and The Oakland Arts Review. In her free time, she enjoys reading, visiting coffee shops, and hiking in the mountains.