I bite into the peach angrily, imagining that it is you. The soft skin of your arm perhaps, maybe a thigh, or a calf. I chew and swallow down the pulp slowly, closing eyes and savouring it. I open them to see the blank wall opposite me. I would like to cover it in something. Get rid of the ugly beige. Throw an entire can of bright pink paint over it and watch the drips drop towards the floor. I take another bite of the peach.
I havent always been so vicious with my foodstuffs. I do not usually pulverise chunks of tomato with my teeth or squash entire grapes underneath my tongue. It is only really since the apathy in my life reached an aching crescendo that it has started. I pick and peck at accidental mistakes and traits that have belonged in your personality for years. It is somewhat passive aggressive I suppose, voicing my anguish at the toilet seat being left up via messages blue-tacked to the refrigerator door, ready for your perusal before breakfast.
However, you, my once-angelic groom, ignore them utterly. I return home after a gruelling day, creep down the dim hall and stealth my way into the kitchen, ready for action, so ready for an argument, and there you are. Newspaper up, glasses on, favourite radio broadcast shouting into the room. You say hello, I mutter one back, grab pen and post-it and harangue you on paper until yours ears must be bleeding. And yet each day, each slow day that ticks and tocks by full to the brim with boredom you have no reaction. I take another bite of the peach.