Squeeze

She was picking
out peaches,
I needed soap
and a reason to leave
the house.

She bemoaned the difficulty
of choosing good fruit
and the lack of ripe mangos.

"Help me squeeze these,"
she ordered and I obliged,
grabbed a small ruddy fruit
and squeezed, sniffed
its fragrant skin.

"No use," I said.
"Fruit is a gamble
just like love."

And really, love is
like a piece of fruit --
you never quite know
what you're biting into.

"You're silly
when you flirt,
philosophizing about fruit,"
she shot,
laughed with a lilt.

I blushed,
my face a ripe mango.
She squeezed my cheek,
turned toward the tomatoes.