On eating a white peach

I like to peel the fuzzy skin off a peach with my fingers. No blades, only fingernails. The plump fruit in question must be almost over-ripe to do this right.

And foreplay begins.

Deep floral notes invest my nostrils as I pare away with meticulous precision. The fragrant reward for such labor is reminiscent of south-facing walls and summer days, the cackle of child's play and my grandmother's sundress. Just a hint of almond clings on my fingers, like an afterthought.

When the shining orb is unclothed, it slips dangerously in my hands, I am compelled to assail it with my teeth. The first impact is a sensuous kiss, one wet with humor and dribbly juices. My chin cannot embank the nectar rivulets, they mercilessly fall like pink droplets of sunset to my lap. I bite so deep that my teeth scrape the pit. The succulent ambrosia tastes sweet, with a touch of tart to it; I try to prolong the moment by chewing longer, but the flesh succumbs to my mouth without effort. The sweet intoxication is devastating, I need to sink my teeth into it again.

I gaze in the opening my teeth have carved away from this exquisite Asian globe, and I see the outer white pulp begin to bruise slightly, its inner blood-red hues leaning towards crimson.
As the weight of the peach begins to decrease with each bite, I leave one last wedge attached to the gnarled pit, my eye slanting to the frosty glass of Ribolla gialla.

I dive the morsel into the wine and let it soak for a minute before indulging in both.