Free Noology by Alanna Markey Page B

head for the dining room,
teasing one another like the immature teenagers they think they still are. This
leaves Amy, my mother, and I to carry the humble feast to the rustic maple
table. I attempt to juggle a glass pitcher of transparent water, a ceramic dish
of crisp buttery lettuce leaves dusted with pepper, and coarse wheat rolls
shrouded in an unraveling cerulean dish rag.
    “Let me take that,” Amy offers, reaching
for the jug as she balances a tray of pristine fresh fruit. It is a palette of
vibrant flushing reds, blazing oranges, mellow blues, and sunny yellows.
    “Thanks,” I mumble, trying hard not to
drool as I devour the produce with my hungry eyes. Amy follows my gaze, and
cracks a smile for the first time all evening as she notes my obvious delight.
    “I thought I should bring a small
contribution to our dinner since your parents have kindly allowed me to stay
for the week.”
    “Amy, how did you…?” I blurt,
flabbergasted.
    “It is no big deal. My father has some
connections with the local farmers. They brought us the cream of their crop
this week.” My opinion of her soars as I struggle against my carnal instincts
to greedily cram the plump berries down my throat like a starved animal.
    We slip into the dining room, and all
conversations dwindle as the occupants turn to stare at Amy. Or rather the
luscious bounty she bears. My father tries to pick up his discussion with Tate
and Rian, but the proximity of such a succulent treat has overridden all
cerebral function with primitive urges to tear into the buffet.
    Everyone slides into one of the
mismatched chairs, scavenged from the remnants of a myriad of dining sets
throughout the area. I select the regal cherry-stained seat with ornate scrollwork
and intricate carvings. It is blemished by scars, but in its youth it was a
sophisticate’s resting place and this distinction transcends the afflictions of
age. We eagerly await the signal to commence our meal, and look to my father
for guidance.
    “I just want to quickly address the group
and express my gratitude that you have all taken the time to visit. I am
blessed to be surrounded by such intellectual yet warm friends and I savor each
minute we spend together. Thank you to Amy for her consideration in bringing
such a delightful gift for us to share in. Bon appétit!”
    After a moment’s hesitation, I reach for
the dry salad just as Tate decides to do the same. Our hands brush, and he
withdraws. “Ladies first.”
    “I was about to say the same thing,” I parry.
    We exchange a brief grin, and I heap a
small mound of withered lettuce upon my mauve plate before passing the bowl to
Tate on my right. My mother produces the platter of scrumptious fruits on my
left, and I am unable to decide where to begin. I grab a firm ruby apple, and
am about to settle for a perfectly spherical orange when I observe the tiny
blue globes rolling across the plate.
    “What are these?” I ask, pinching one
between my thumb and index finger.
    “Blueberries,” Amy succinctly replies.
“Have you ever tried them? They are my favorite fruit. I used to eat handfuls
as a child.”
    “Not a very creative name,” I muse,
popping the little ball into my mouth. I pierce the skin, and am shocked by a
tart rush of juices. Notes of saccharine sweetness meld with sharp acidity to
conduct a symphony of flavors across my receptive taste buds. A moan of
gratification creeps through my lips, and I open my eyes to see everyone
absorbed in monitoring my sensory journey. A hot flush migrates to my cheeks as
I become aware of my surroundings, and I turn to see Tate stifling a grin in
his palm. I recover enough to whisper, “Yeah. They’re good.”
    This verdict fails to capture the
frenzied state of my palate as it tingles with pleasure, but I need to escape
the spotlight and regain my self-control. As I pass the dish to Tate, he pins me
under his arresting gaze and deliberately scoops up a handful of the indigo
berries and consumes