Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

pumelo

I ate half of one. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze, as if I had ingested fistfuls of orchids drenched in perfume, all this pouring out of my skin with the haze of such a thing, and the madness of it. I was dazed by it. I watched the ceiling fan, fascinated by the way it spun. I existed, with the soft, warm glow of the perfume radiating from my stomach, and my brain. 

I had never had one before. 

Angie was energized. She talked loudly, excitedly. We peeled off the skin and drenched them in liquors, hiding our infusions in the back of a cabinet to discover the wonder of the peppery oils in the skin of the flower.


With a gentle breath, like cutting open a shell, the pumelo cracked. The pith had the consistency of the paper that wraps around tea. The flesh, as if the petals of a flower had fattened up on almond oil and honey. 

Huge things, we bought the smallest in the store, amazed at the size. It was heavy, firm, and a clear golden color. 

Have you ever eaten one? Did it hit you like a drug? Angie and I were hit as if by a drug from it. We spent the afternoon in a haze, trapped in a moment we could not escape, and incapable of complex thoughts. We watched Anime. We got the munchies. It was sublime. Have you ever eaten one? Did it hit you like a drug?

Because, we can't find anything on the internet to suggest what happened to us with our first pumelo. 

I'm addicted, now. I want more.

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