I remember you gave me a peach for my twentieth birthday. You brought it back with you from Georgia. You reached it out to me and I told you I don’t like peaches, but I do love pears so we went to the market and you bought me a pear instead. You got me an artificial peach too–the kind made for a fruit bowl–and you told me when the peach went bad, so would your love for me. One night while I slept you left and I guess you put a real peach where the fake one had sat for so many years, because when I woke up, the peach had rotted.