The Pink Peach

On Frankaffe, Sushrut Munje shares what it feels to be present in this given moment, drunk on her heady presence and her strength of a fine wine. Such delight.
Eric Peterson Illustration

Comfortable silence prevailed as we sipped coffee under the evening sky. Just the right amount of milk and sugar. Just the right bitter black. With the slight nip in the air and an occasional rustle, it was a certain November. She had been a song to hum along with. I looked out into the distance, as she sat beside me, breathing her in.

An artwork caught our eye, and the conversation discussed the mischievous history of something that seemed so politely packaged. Quite like her, a wine that offers a tingle, mischief in a stately gown. The tip of the iceberg, inviting a conversation, layers revealed if the chords are struck right. Chilly ocean for the uninitiated, a hot water spring for one who hums along.

And we discussed peaches. The appealing softness, just so warm in every light, the definite cheekiness and the desirable texture – a hint of what’s in store. A peach is intense, an acquired taste for those who seek sugar, sheer satiation for those who lick the sweetness dry.

The moon shone bright with its spots and the sun had taken leave for the day. The song stood strong in the evening breeze. Drunk on sips of her heady presence, I described what it meant to be present in this given moment. She blushed pink.

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