Notes on Peeling Fruit
The pear shape is sad in its own skin. It has mottled pieces. It’s freckled.
In Sleepless in Seattle, I watched a woman peel an apple in one sliver while moonlight from a tube cast across her face. I believed in an underpaid teenager holding that moon steady with a growing pained arm. I imagined it being turned off between takes.
I remember thinking that this was how you made someone fall for you; by removing skin effortlessly in one piece, with a sharp knife over a sink.
All you have to do is carve the peel and reveal flesh - bare, sweet and juice filled.
It’s a bit like baring all and getting naked.
Before I had touched the skin of any other person, I would stay up in my bedroom and try on bras handed down to me from my cousins in the Midlands of England in these sagging binbags. I would whisper wishes to my ceiling for a body I would peel from other bodies. I would practice clasping these wire cages around my ribs, in the dark, in the bed, in the mirror, one handed. I would read about the body shape I was to grow and then I started, little by little, inch by inch, summer by summer, to harvest that body that I’d been handed down from my Mothers side up in the Midlands of England, pear shaped, into trousers each morning.
In too-tight trousers and too-tight skirts and too-tight skin, I learned about standing at the sink and peeling potatoes in one thin strip for the boys in the bedroom. I was learning about peeling skin.