(16)PIPS
Not like apples. Whole different shape. And a whole other way of eating ’em. Laying back, juice running down his chin, and Tucker eats the skin and the core - all but the stalk. Lulu says, ‘Shouldn’t eat the pips.’ Not if Tucker don’t want a pear tree growing inside.
(17) TERESA EATING PEARS
They taste of summer. That’s what Teresa says. She sits in the garden, cross-legged and with a tea-plate in her lap and a butter-knife in her hand. That’s how you know they’re ripe, she says. Takes only a butter-knife to cut them. Makes a show of it for me - teasing.
(18)YOU HAVE TO WATCH PEARS
Francis watches them. Checks them when he wakes. Presses them gently with his fingers. Something sexy in that, he thinks; he means sensual. He holds one to his mouth, sets his teeth to it; not really biting – just testing, anticipating a sudden ripeness. Not wanting to miss the moment.
(19)TINNED PEARS
I remember camping once. With Angie. Night – a tent and one sleeping bag. Angie brought a tin opener and I brought pears in a tin. We’d to watch the jagged edge of the lid, scooping with two fingers, slices of pear that slithered like white fish in both our mouths.
(20)GREEN PEARS
She was sick. Really sick. Folded in two almost, head over the toilet and me holding back her hair and rubbing her back and saying something and nothing… mostly sound. Unripe pears; green as she now was, hard to the bite, and Lindy’d enjoyed too much the crunch of them.
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