I hold the cloudy, dark plum, heavy in anticipation, weak from its own weight and firm skin. My lips surround it, privately tasting the sweet juice. I pull back dripping, wiping my chin, and watch the orange, soft golden, brown flesh expose. The skin now forgiving. My hand peels the curtain of skin away, holding the drape with two fingers, raising the plum back to my mouth, the plum no longer refusing.