Guilty Fruit

The walls are white between the bright crimson spattering of juices. On the floor, pooling over the tired nude linoleum along the floor boards, the juices are partially dried around the edges to create a stain. Here and there the seeds of the guilty fruit lay like red tear drops the size of baby’s teeth. They are on the ground, spread sparingly from one wall to the next as carefully distributed as stars throughout the universe, giving each other a wide berth and only occasionally meeting in groups of three or five.
On the dirty white seat cushions they sparkle like delicate jewels and on the table the white inner membranes of the fruit are strewn over the plaid table cloth among paper towels. The red and pink and speckled outer skins are there too, keeping their disgorged inside company.
On the tile countertops all parts of the fruit that bring death to the world lie scattered and the juice runs in tiny rivers over the grout. A butcher's knife lays gleaming on the cutting board, also sullied with sticky sweet nectar, adding to the unsettling aura of gore that permeates the room.
The red liquid splattered on the walls, pooling on the floor, running in rivers over the countertops, is highlighted by the stark whiteness of the cabinetry, tiles, and unsullied portions of wall. White and red fight for control of the atmosphere and both loose sway at the stainless steel sink crowded with soaking pots and baking sheets. The sink is an explosion of soiled steel nestled in the greater explosion of red and white, like the pink nipple and aureole at the tip of a pale breast, or like the pollen laden burst at the center of a flower.
There is an odor particular to dirty drains and stainless steel sinks which mingles with that of burnt remnants absorbing water on the surfaces of cookie sheets, and of course, the musky smell of that fruit. It is difficult to smell the juices over the unique and strong odor of the membranes and peel, their smell is unlike the smell of other fruits.
On the counter, nearly hidden by ruffles of crumpled paper towels lies a wedge of the fruit possessing all of the parts; tough red skin, white membranes holding and hiding their treasure, and a multiplicity of ruby hued seeds. The pattern calls to mind the nests of wasps while the color, especially the juice, begs to be confused with blood.
A white bodied lamp holding a pear shaped light bulb without the modesty of a lamp shade bathes the scene with a butter cream light. It is aided by a light mounted on the ceiling where multiple bulbs are occluded beneath a dome of etched glass. The pattern of the etchings is a precise array of concentric rings textured with ribs or diamonds in an alternating pattern.
Light glows in the shape of a shamrock on the glossy white paint of the ceiling surrounding the light fixture. No red here, only white and crystal and butter cream playing peacefully together above the mayhem. The jealous red is stealing its way up the walls in the form of those bright splatters, but it never quite reaches into that last bastion of pale solidarity.
The stovetop and oven, like the sink, are engaged in their own game unconcerned with the struggles of white and red. They enjoy the geometric austerity of square doors and round burners dressed in black and white like nuns. Underneath this happy pair a seed or two of the messy fruit lays sequestered, enjoying the solitude and anonymity of darkness where their crimson stain is stripped of significance.

The Artist

The artist is leaning back, the paintbrush poised delicately between the fingers of an upraised hand. The brush is long and slender, a light wooden wand with blond bristles. Her fingernails are long and surprisingly clean, white tipped. Her smile radiates not only from her parted lips that reveal white teeth and the pink inside of her mouth, but also, more prominently, that smile shines in her glittering black eyes. She wears an apron decorated with pink roses over a black tank top. The table is covered with clean newspapers. There is not a stray splash of paint to be seen. The canvass standing on the table top over the support of a small easel is already halfway covered with paint. The emerging scene is a larger replication of a scene depicted on a small note pad that rests on the table top just below the canvass. Both are representations of little wooden dolls like the one that can barely be seen peeping around the edge of the canvas. Only its round pink cheek and wide almond shaped eye are visible along with the wave of visible hair that frames her face and the white cap that tops it. The eyes of the little doll and of the drawn doll and painted doll are all big eyes, dark in the center like the painter’s shiny black eyes. They are all replicas of the original, with her pink cheek and wave of dark hair crowning her head. The careful reproductions are all copies, a copy of a copy of a copy of a woman. A woman with high arched brows and pink lips and flowers on her clothes. A woman who makes things with her hands and knows the secret of making things and smiles with the knowledge of it. A goddess that has unraveled the secret of creation and does it so carefully, so painstakingly, that not a single line goes stray, that not one petite droplet of color falls wasted on the workspace or smeared on a hand or cheek. Even the brush is clean, as if the painting is being produced with nothing more than a carefully concentrated attention that burns the image upon the canvass at the painter’s will. Another pair of clean brushes can be seen poking out of a can, their bristles pointing upward just above the head of the small wooden doll that remains partially concealed by the canvass. Everything is clean. Every line is in place. And the artist beams with the joy of creation.

Bath

There is a grass equilateral triangle, about 100 feet on each side, surrounded by three buildings, each three stories high. The buildings contain a repeating sequence of small alcoves, each with a door, a glass window and thick curtains. The upper stories have long balconies running along the alcoves with a thin metal railing on the side. There are stairways on both sides and small additional indirect lamps at periodic intervals on the edges of the roof. The walls are a light brown that looks almost yellow in the middle of the night, with only the very soft lights shining on them. The railings have complex adornments and each door has a number engraved in golden letters. It is all very quiet. There is no movement along the balconies and no sound coming from inside the rooms.
The grass is moist with dew, tiny drops of water linger from the slender leaves and throw off a welcoming scent. They are trimmed to perfection, all at the same length, giving the illusion of a flat surface. There are tall, black metal posts, almost as tall as the buildings with little lights at the top, that further illuminate the area. The posts stand on small cement squares, about 4 feet long, and there are three of them, one at each corner of the triangle. From the center of each side, there is a cement path that goes towards the center.
In the middle of the triangle is a metal railing in the shape of a circle. It is black metal as well, but shiny with moisture like the grass, and covered in tiny baroque figures. Where the cement pathways meet it there are small metal doors. Through the thin metal bars of the railing, you can see into its center, past the doors. There, in the middle of the entire configuration, is a pool of hot water. In the dark of the night and the beams of the lamp posts, clouds of steam are visible as they rise from the hot water and disappear into the night sky. The water is a dark shade of blue and it moves only slightly, with little tiny waves that shift back and forth along the surface. It sounds like the subtle echo of a beach as the miniscule waves hit the cement edge and recede. A low electrical hum underscores the gentle sound and an additional light shines up from the depths.
In the center of the pool, two women stand facing each other, waist deep in the water. One is very young, blonde and has a very slight body. Her face is round and child like, her long hair is wet and sticks tightly to her head and shoulders. Her small bare breasts are almost invisible in the midst of the hot steam, only her dark maroon nipples stand out in the midst of her soft, white skin. The other woman is older, her body is thicker and covered in curves. She has short black hair, also wet and pressed against her head and forehead. Her breasts are large, full and they fall towards her stomach. She is taller than the young one and holds her space with a calm severity. Her face is a delicate mix of gentleness and harshness.
They stare into each other’s eyes and very calmly bathe each other, slowly running their hands over each others arms, shoulders, breasts and stomach. The older woman reaches down, holding her hand in the shape of a small cup, brings it back full of water and slowly lets it drip over the younger woman’s body. The blonde barely smiles and repeats the same process, letting the water gently drip down over the brunnette’s chest.
Their eyes vibrate with an intensity that radiates out throughout the inner circle and out onto the grass triangle and the buildings that surround it. The grass, the lamp posts, the walls, the railings, even the numbers on the doors… they all shine in sympathetic resonance and are brought to life. With each breath, the women repeat the process… the slow dripping of the water, the calm response and the rhythmic intensity of their contact. There is no hidden identity, no silent purpose, no mountain to climb, no cliff to jump from… just another handful of water and eyes that burn like hot steam.