The Last Fruit

He watched as the juice ran from her lips, down her chin and dripped on to the table below. Her lips, redder than the flesh she devoured, sank into the fruit as if she could tear through its skin without the aid of teeth. She made no move to wipe away the sticky glaze that started to coat her face.

Adam wiped his fingers and glanced down at the ham and salad sandwich in front of him. The pickle he had removed lay green and soggy on the edge of the plate. He had meant to specify "no pickle" when ordering, but he'd been distracted. The prospect of the one o'clock meeting with David Grey, overseas investment director, had been haunting him for days. He had already run through his presentation a hundred times in his head. He knew how important this meeting was – they'd told him often enough.

Discarded rind littered her plate. Her fingers stroked the mound of remaining fruit. She caressed each slowly; touching, squeezing, exploring before selecting one and raising it to her lips. She closed her eyes inhaling its scent; drawing it deeply into her. Her mouth was open, parted lips dark pink, glistening with saliva. Adam bit into his sandwich. It hung limply from his fingers, the pink ham flaccid in its spongy white casing. His boss expected him to do well today and he'd made an art of living according to the expectations of others. The expected was safe. He had everything covered.

She ran her tongue over the rough surface of the peach, grooming it with the cat-like sweeps; teasing at the fur, working the skin of the ripened fruit harder and harder until it began to leak. With a deft flick of her tongue she caught the escaping drops, tilting her head back to consume the yielding flesh.

Adam cut the remainder of his sandwich carefully in half. The next triangles reminded him what his charts should be ready by now. He had left detailed instructions with reprographic. He had spent ages trying to combine retail sales and advertising expenditure on one graph. "Neat graphs, neat mind" – Training Manual Volume 3.

Adam glanced out of the window. It was raining. The drops ran down the murky glass, obscuring the grey silhouettes of the city outside. Inside, the lush plants in the café made it seem like an oasis in the centre of a commercial wasteland; Eden in Hell's capital.

The shadows along her cheekbones shifted as she rolled the denuded peach stone around the inside of her mouth, probing its crevices, feeling along its crinkled surface, following the complex whorls that decorated the unyielding core. Stripped of the power to interest her, she spat the naked shell amongst the sloughed skins.

Adam chewed the rest of his sandwich. It tasted stale; the ham felt flabby against his tongue. He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. She was still gazing intently at the bowl. He could see damp patches on the white of her shirt where the fruit had dripped. He licked his lips. He suddenly felt very thirsty. Glancing at his watch, he signaled for the waitress. If he hurried he just about had time.

"A flat white, please"

The grapes dangled over her mouth. Reaching up with her tongue she coaxed one towards her before plucking it from the stem, leaving behind a green quivering tip. Her teeth burst through the tight skin, throat opening to receive its fleshy sacrifice. As her mouth reached up for the next, her eyes met his. Without altering her stare, she continued to pluck the grapes, drawing them inexorably into her mouth. Adam shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps he should cancel his order. He really didn't have time. He watched her throat move relentlessly as she swallowed the grapes one by one. She was still looking at him. The vine dangled wantonly, offering its remaining fruit to the red curve of her mouth.

Adam dragged his eyes away from her face and looked at his watch: 12.45. Where was that waitress?

Her bowl was nearly empty now. He stared at its hard rim. There was just a solitary piece of fruit left. Above the bowl Adam could see the curve of her breast, nipples jutting against the white cotton. Nervously, he licked his lips and moved his gaze upwards, along the taut lines of her neck, past the strength of her jaw, past the hard white teeth set in that red slashed mouth, up to where her eyes burnt amber and green, challenging.

"Your coffee, sir."

The coffee sat untouched as Adam crossed to her table. Eyes locked together they sat opposite one another, between them the white bowl. The red line of her lips stretched into a smile as she reached in and removed the last piece of fruit. Adam followed the movement of her hand towards him. The fruit lay still, seductive in her open palm – red against white. The air felt heavy, soaked in the juice of her presence. It caught in his throat. His mouth was so dry. One bite couldn't hurt.

He reached for her outstretched hand, took the apple and bit down hard. Sharp and sweet, Adam reeled from its bitter ambrosia; the intoxicating taste of the unexpected, the taste of knowledge.

Silently, the hands on his watch moved past one o'clock. As the juice ran from his lips, down his chin and dribbled onto the table, Eve smiled.