Shaved Peach

Today, I will make a white peach pie. I will make it for my boi. Sweet and juicy -- when it is sliced it will hold its shape and each crescent of unblemished peach will glisten as it offers itself to hym.

The crust will be light, flakey and golden, I will crimp it with my fingers, gently pinching and pulling it into a fitting corona. Tender, it will surrender to the strength of hys tongue and melt there.

The fragrance will seduce hym when it spills from the oven and wafts through my rooms like the aroma of warm moonlit summers heavy with the perfume of night blooming flowers and ripe fruit. It will seduce hym again when the electric stimuli of taste signal hys brain.

It will make hym smyle.