Idée Fixe

No woman wants to be low-hanging fruit, my glamorous girlfriend says, but I’m indiscriminate and love all fruit, I’m tempted to list each kind right here, in and out of season, because even just saying the names gives me pleasure, as does saying your name. I’m not alone with my passion — my whole family, we’re a little off in this regard, we can spend hours talking about cantaloupe or arguing over how many flats to buy when it’s Peach-O-Rama at the Metropolitan. Once I even drove half a day to get to Pence Orchards where I met and took photos of Bert Pence, who sold me three boxes of peaches at wholesale prices. He was so good to me, as was the late-summer freestone I picked as I walked back through the orchard in the August heat to the entrance gates, which were nothing like the Gates of Hell. On the contrary, I was in heaven there in Yakima. I can still smell that single peach, which was profusely low-hanging, it was the definition of low-hanging, it fell into my hands, as you did — or perhaps as I did into yours — but that was months ago. When I walked past the stands yesterday, on what should have been the first day of spring, all produce had been covered with heavy blankets to keep it warm, to mitigate harm. Today the temperature dropped so low someone thought to remove the fruit entirely and stash it away. With this strange weather we’re having, will I see you again? I can’t help myself.