We Are Peaches

Lately, among the humans I know, more than usual are unusually broken-hearted. If there was ever an evolutionary purpose for love, I can’t see one now. It’s like our leftover tailbone. According to the freshest evidence, it appears to be a gamble, and gambling sucks. Gambling for leftovers is worse. I don’t gamble for leftovers unless it’s mom’s dumpling soup or dad’s chili. It’s not something that makes a lot of sense to me. I don’t even like shopping for fruit.

And really, that’s what all this stupid finding-your-person stuff is. Human beings look for other human beings the same way they cruise the produce aisle. They stand in front of a bin of peaches, squint, pick up one and then another. Run their fingers across the fuzz, feeling for tenderness, bruises,

Above: Your soul-mate.

gouges from over-eager fingernails. Wanting just enough give, because there’s nothing worse than sinking your teeth into a dry, tough fruit. Judgments and revelations all made without considering how the peach feels about you.

The bin is picked over, and the rest are thrown out.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe it isn’t about finding the perfect peach. Maybe it’s about finding a peach that’s bruised in a certain way that makes you think, you know what? I could make one hell of a jam with this thing. Even if you’ve never made preserves in your life.

Or something.


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