Still life, in a hurry

Bananas ripen treacherously: green with reproach on Monday, confessing everything by Thursday.

Fruit lives faster than we do. A peach is a golden week with two good days, like certain August loves.

We buy oranges as if the future were guaranteed, and the future is this: a pear going soft next to the keys and the letters from the bank, reminding us under its breath that everything sweet has a date.

That's why I eat the ripe fruit over the sink, no plate, juice running down my wrist: it's the closest thing I have to arriving on time for anything.