She was loud and always happy, always laughing. Once settled in and having assured our parents she would be in all night, she dragged me out shopping. Of all the women in the world, for me there is only one who makes shopping fun: Lorraine. She prattled on about life, asking my advice on clothes, and on presents for Mike and the parents. After an exhausting two hour marathon, she propelled me into a coffee shop and ordered coffee and sinfully creamy cakes. ‘Something’s not right in your life Li’l-bro,’ she said seriously. Li’l-bro was her joke. Mike was ‘Big-bro’, even though now as adults, I was three inches taller than he was. ‘Come on, spill, what’s wrong?’ Lorraine was like that. When I started walking Nicola to school, she caught on immediately and teased me that I was in ‘lurve’ as she put it. When I went to spend the deflowering weekend with Nicola, she knew exactly what I was doing and even covered for me at home. She was always one highly perceptive girl, now a woman and. But the fruit she carried was not hollow, it was firm and full. She was like an almost ripe apricot, her belly skin tight, but soft and brushed with fine down, the fruit of her belly firm. I wanted her to ripen and for the fruit to come out from under the soft skin. I could imagine she was holding inside her some lush juicy fleshed peach as she lay there, glowing in the dappled shade of a coconut palm that leant out, and hung cross the sand with its fronds brushing the surface of the sea. She reminded me so much of fruit that one day I made her into a desert. As she lay there languidly, half dozing in the heat I cut up a banana and neatly arranged the slices over the peak of the mound of her belly. The banana stickiness enough to hold the slices to her as she lay still. Then I sliced mango finely, laying the strips over her between the slices of banana, the juice sticking and dripping down her sides. Then pawpaw, the colours now having a magic of their own. Cream, gold and sunset.
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