She had a bright yellow pen and a fat hardcover book with a lime green dust jacket.
Her yoga pants were red like pomegranate, and her spa socks were slate. Her black and white cat played with a ribbon that was thick as Asian flat noodle. Her coffee was black and sat just so. It filled an espresso cup the color of steak bone.
Soon she would be eating a banana that matched her pen, but she was unsure she liked the color. The pens also came in a very citrusy orange that made her heart skip.
A small car that was orange, too, put her in good spirits, if it was the same color of the fruit you bought from a grocery store and dropped into a small, brown paper bag that smelled similar to cardboard.
You picked the fruit out based on color, touch and shape.
Small, brown paper bags also elicited a certain glee for her — the smell and feel of them. And the convenience. The crumple. Something secret or a gift.
Among those who worked in produce, there was always a banter and invariably a pencil in an ear. There were rolled-up sleeves and a chill in the air that carried the aroma evocative of jam.
A McIntosh apple orchard in autumn.
A wine cellar where wine was made by a large, boisterous Italian family, with work starting early and voices reverberating throughout the alleyway in the Bronx, big empty wine barrels at the ready.
She remembered chestnuts fallen under the fat trees of Fordham. Beneath their shells, smelling of wood, they were cold and moist like tree flesh. Roasted, the shells chipped and broke off like bark and could cut you if you were not careful.