This time he had dates. « Elles viennent de Jordanie, madame* » he said as he held out a fresh date with sugar tongs. Nothing compares to fresh dates. Better than candy, sweeter than any other fruit, richer than chocolate; a feast, a treat but mostly an indulgence of a sensory kind.
It had a rich coffee color. Plump and soft, its skin was glossy and slightly tacky with seeped juices. A drop of nectar hung near the top. I took a bite. The velvety texture melted on the tongue, surprised the palate and tickled taste buds. The saturated sweetness of its flesh had an echo of caramel or may be brown sugar with a hint of nuttiness buried in there. I could not utter a sound besides “Mmmm”. I wanted to take my time, suck the whole thing in my mouth and savor the experience as well as the fullness of its taste with abandon.
Perhaps because I was seeing him for the third time and noticed the laugh lines around his eyes or because I could see his bad boy side as he watched me enjoy this fruit from Eden, I turned away. I hid the explosion of sensations in a moment of excruciating self-awareness, holding in the happy dance, but I could neither contain a smile, nor a gentle sway from side to side. I closed my eyes and let sensations wash over me with an irrepressible shudder. Endorphins flooded my brain; bliss was mine.
I bought dates and other stuff.
* They come from Jordan