It was sizzling hot, grill of oily bacon fat popping with rashers wriggling in the pan like flesh-eels, and some greasy mushrooms brown black clods of fungal earth on the side. It smells of piggy, and crispy toast, and a bit of fried onion. I’m at the frying pan, with a bowl of yellow pancake mixture smelling of vanilla essence and flour and I am completely here, taking it all in, thoughtless. I feel the skin of my feet on the textured floor, little lumps of screed and maybe a lost piece of onion skin beneath toes. Lift arm with ladle, scoop through the yellow white thick fluid, and pour some in the shiny pan. A flashing roar of sound and smells as the frying starts, inhale and feel warm hungry goodness inside. My belly feels orange warm, all soft glow and happy sadness, or maybe just gentle goodness. Spatula, creep it under the edges of the pancake and lift the bubbling dough and turn, now crispy brown caramel colors and contours, breathing in slowly snffffff mostly through my right nostril, my chest rising and belly expanding slowly, and an almost bliss there. Thoughts pass through so slowly, a comment on how good this feels, an imagined conversation with Tom, fully noticed and felt.
Leaning over the white marble table top with shiny black metallic phone and rainbow glass round of macro lens, apply it to my glistening eye and hunch over the dappled orange. Burst of candy citrus scent like a poodle jumping over a rainbow with a mandarin red hat and a big smile. Confetti showers of sweetness and sugar water sprayed in a fine mist over my nose. Notice the perfect roundness of the fruit, its skin with little holes like an awkward teenagers acne skin, the orange is turning in on itself to hide in shame. That’s why the delicious, sweet fruit hides in the centre, triangle segments enfolded in waxy thick translucent skin bags, and my stomach turns and tightens at the thought of that flavor squelching on my tongue, feeling the perfect little pods of orangeness, the tiny cell-bags whose texture I can feel in my mouth as I burst them, and an operatic rendition of The Final Countdown begins, a massed chorus of fruits bellowing the words with enthusiasm, bordering on hysteria. Now the fruits are screaming the song, crying citrus smarting acid tears as I rip the orange fruit with my teeth, and they sing for glory, for their friend, raging fruit against the dying of the light. Hopping upon and down on the table, all the fruit
Strolling over yellow white sands with black stringy kelp and the stench of rotting fish and salty fog I spy a fat day glow orange rubber glove so I run panting as Thomas laughs loudly like a donkey hee haw