Lips swollen, she bites

into the soft red flesh, juice

and seeds dribbling down

her chin, her neck;

the summer fruit still held

in a poised hand, colour

offset by cherry nails just done.

Heat of the midday hour

presses down, thick, cloying

to skin so slick with sweat

all clothes become a second

epidermis.  The fan

does nothing but spin

the same hot air round and

round.  She sighs, runs

her other hand across mouth,

chin, neck.  The fruit

tumbles from her fingers,

innards splattered on white

tiles now marred by its death.

She’d kill for a swim.

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