You see the bowl in front of you, a beautiful masterpiece of understated colour. There’s the reddish-orange hue of the pawpaw, the yellow of the mango and the suggestive cream of the banana.
The fruits are diced and sliced beautifully as if the painter of this canvas had all the time in the world. The pawpaw are conical treats, the mangoes are playful yellow dice and the bananas are cut at the perfect centimetre, not too slight, not too thick.
You want to lick your lips. Fruit has never appealed to you so. The pieces are mixed up in the bowl as if to say; no one part of me is as good as the entirety of me. You feel your mouth almost flood. Pavlov would find you an interesting specimen to experiment on with fruit.
You anticipate the soft, squishy perfection of the banana, the delicious tang of the mango, and the crispy hardness of the just ripe pawpaw. You think of them individually, imagining each taste as a unit. Then your mind puts them together; one, the next, then the next. You imagine the riot of colour and taste that would happen in your mouth, on your tongue, beneath your palate. You think of the aftertaste as it travels down your throat, sliding down with lubricated ease.
From the corner of your eye, you see the tin of milk just sitting there. It’s open, as if inviting you to partake of its delicious contents. Just beyond the milk, you see the honey. Its dark silk calls to you, and you refuse to refuse. The best way to resist temptation is to give in to it.
You pick up the bottle, and with a sound that reminds you of dirty things, a few drops fall slowly onto the plate, invading the brightness with its flavour of smooth. The rich darkness of the honey contrasts with the mellow light of the fruit, and you can’t wait to have them mate in your mouth.
Almost upending the tin, you let the cream of the milk contend with the cream of the banana, as it gets lost in the torrent of lush fluid that rains from the can. The fruit would swim, but the bowl is already nearly full of their promised goodness. Loathe to let any drop slip untasted, you set the tin upright before a stray drop of milk can escape.
Slowly, almost shakily, you dip the spoon into the nectar you know awaits. you lift it, dripping with milk, to your lips. You scooped it carefully, nary a drop slipped the edge of the bowl. Your lips close around the cool metal of the cutlery. Your teeth start to move slowly, taking their time so your tongue can absorb every individual taste.
A little milk dribbles down your lip and your tongue flicks at it quickly and catches it, sliding back into your mouth, eager to return to the banquet of tangy sweetness happening inside.
A little moan is about to escape your lips…
“Excuse me, ma’am, the gallery is closing for the night.”
You’re transported to the room in which you’re actually standing. You’re facing a wall with three paintings. You have no idea how they became one in your head, or when they started to make you want. You turn to leave. You’re going straight to the fruit stand.
