There was the smell of apricots in the air, the fresh scent of juice dribbling down the chin and through the hands trying to stop it so failingly. He handed her a napkin and she took it, laughing under the apricot tree as the soft wind pushed one from its branch and dropped it between them. She picked it up and passed it to him, the fruit soft yet not bruised, promising what she would call the perfect apricot.
"You know what I like so much about these," he said, as she looked at him adoringly. "They remind me of you."