Forbidden Fruit
By Mary Combs
August 1999

Natalie stepped into the kitchen and stood frozen, a look of horror on her face.

Nick sat at the table, eyes closed, a look of deep satisfaction on his. The telltale trickle of crimson at the corner of his smiling mouth would have been enough -- the bright droplets staining his white T-shirt only confirmed her worst fears.

“Nick, how could you?” Her voice was filled with hurt and accusation.

Nick leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair in his surprise. “Nat! You’re back early.” He wiped his mouth furtively.

“You promised.”

Nick smiled sheepishly and gave her his best “scolded puppy dog” look, to no avail.

“How much?...... Nick, how much?” Nat’s anger was rapidly overcoming her disappointment.

“Um.... All of them.”

“All???? You.... all by yourself?”

“Well, no, I... ummm... I - I - I had some help.” He gestured toward the shadowy corner of the kitchen, and his accomplices stepped forward, mouths and cheeks stained red and dripping.

Natalie exploded.

“That’s enough. Don’t say another word. *Any* of you.” She strode to the back door and threw it open. Beyond the covered porch, the afternoon sun slanted across the yard. “Out. Now. All of you. And don’t come back until.....”

The kiss caught her unawares -- Nick left her gasping as she pushed him away with one hand and wiped the sticky redness from her lips with the other. Wordlessly, she shoved him out the door. The other two followed, cautiously. She slammed the door shut behind them and leaned against it, surveying the remnants of the orgy.

It was as bad as she expected. Red spatters all over the floor and the countertop, and signs of sticky red hands on the cabinets. She opened the door to the fridge, knowing what she would find. The mayonnaise jar, quite empty; the better part of two loaves of bread gone.

Sighing, she went to the window and looked out into the back yard. The garden was bright with sunlight, highlighting the three blond heads toiling over the plants.

Five-year-old Fleur was scouting for ripe tomatoes. Nick was carefully pulling replacements for the forbidden fruit they had devoured (promised for Don and Myra Schanke’s barbecue), and Little Nick was carrying each one to the basket, placing it carefully and patting it with his chubby hand as if it were a puppy that needed to be told to stay in place.

Natalie smiled, her anger dissolving at the sight. “Oh well,” she sighed. “At least it’s only once a year.” She licked the corner of her mouth, where a trace of Nick’s tomatoey kiss still lingered, and went out to help.

The End