Mouth Full of Seeds

Sweetness hit first.

Not music.
Not dust.
Not the old velvet dark.

Fruit.

A thick wine-dark sweetness,
split rind and sugar,
the smell of something opening too far.

The opera house had grown an orchard.

Pomegranate trees rose from the orchestra pit,
their branches climbing through the empty rows,
fruit hanging over the seats
like red lanterns with bad intentions.
Velvet held fallen husks in its lap.
Balconies had gone leafy.
Private boxes were curtained in branches.
Roots pushed up through the stageboards
in dark, crooked seams.

A chandelier still burned overhead.
One surviving spotlight
fell on a single tree at center stage
like the house had picked a new soprano
and refused to apologize.

It was vulgar.
It was magnificent.
It was sweating sweetness into the dark.

When the first fruit split open,
the sound rose through the house
like a soft round of applause.

I turned to look at you
and forgot every other spectacle in the room.

Blue eyes.
Blonde hair fallen partway over them.
Your mouth already bending toward trouble.
You looked at the orchard
the way some people look at sin
when they’ve already decided.

The aisle narrowed with branches.
Leaves brushed our shoulders.
Fruit glowed over the velvet rows,
thick-skinned and ready to burst.
The whole room smelled
of warm dust, stage curtains,
and ripeness so lush
it was one degree from indecent.

A split pomegranate rested on a seat.
Its seeds shone in the half-dark,
wet as lacquer,
packed tight as if made under pressure.

You picked it up.
Pressed your thumb to the broken rind.
Looked at me.

Not kind.
Not cruel.
Interested.

“Come here,” you said,
and the house leaned in to listen.

So I did.

You held out the fruit in your palm.
I took the seeds carefully,
more carefully than either of us respected.
They burst sweet, faintly bitter,
small red mouths opening on my tongue.

You watched that happen.

Then you tipped a few into your own mouth,
never breaking my gaze,
and a shine of juice caught at the corner of your lip.

I must have looked at it too long.

“Fix it,” you said.

So I did.

My thumb at your mouth.
The wet red shine of it.
The warmth of your skin.
Your hand arriving at my waist
with the ease of want,
as if it had only been a matter of time
before it learned its place.

Somewhere above us
another fruit split open.

The sound rolled through the balconies
like an overture.

The opera house still knew
how to hold a performance.
It had simply developed better taste.

You led me toward the stage.
Branches caught in my long dark hair.
Seeds cracked under our shoes
like little red verdicts.
The spotlight made the fruit shine more obscenely than necessary.
The tree at center stage
stood there flushed with importance.

I laughed
because the whole thing was impossible,
because I was already breathless,
because wanting you in that room
felt too excessive not to.

You laughed too, quieter,
and then your hand slid to the back of my neck.

That was the end of manners.

The first kiss was exact.
Not gentle.
Not rough.
Exact.

Like you’d been holding yourself back
for the sake of decorum
and had finally decided
the room no longer required it.

Your mouth tasted of pomegranate.
My hands found your shoulders,
then the lines of you,
then the nape of your neck,
warm under my palm.
Your breath changed against my mouth.
So did mine.

The house heard both.

It heard the little sound that left me
when you kissed me harder.
Heard leaves stirring above the velvet.
Heard a fruit fall somewhere in the flies.
Heard my body lose the argument.

You drew back only enough
to look at me.

My hazel eyes must have looked feverish
in all that red and gold.
Your gaze dropped to my mouth.
You touched my lower lip
with the side of your thumb,
then fed me another torn cluster of seeds.

I bit them from your fingers.
Slowly.

Your mouth tilted.

“That’s ugly,” you murmured,
voice gone low with want.

“Then stop watching.”

You laughed,
and the opera house echoed back to us richer,
let it climb the balconies,
brush the chandeliers,
shake loose a leaf or two
as if the whole ruined place
had been waiting years
to hear something like that again.

You took my hand
and led me up the side stairs
toward one of the private boxes,
fruit hanging over the railings,
branches making curtains of the entrance.

By the time we reached it
my pulse had gone theatrical.

Below us,
the stage glowed under its tired spotlight.
The tree at center stood in full display,
vain as a diva,
fruit heavy on every branch.

You sat first,
one arm along the faded velvet bench,
and looked at me
like the place beside you
was not what you had in mind.

I stood between your knees instead.

That pleased you.

Your hands found my hips
with full confidence now,
as if the room had already confirmed
what kind of scene this was.

You tipped your head back.
I bent toward you.
Your mouth found my throat,
slow first,
then your teeth,
lightly,
just above my pulse.

Heat went through me so fast
it was almost embarrassing.

“You like that,” I said.

You looked up at me,
blue eyes gone darker in the red dimness,
and caught my lower lip
between your teeth
just hard enough
to make the answer irrelevant.

After that,
we stopped trying to look composed.

There was fruit everywhere.

A bowl on the ledge beside us,
as if the house had laid in provisions.
Split husks.
Loose seeds.
Juice on my fingers,
then yours,
then both of us laughing softly
when it ended up
on your mouth,
on my wrist,
on the heel of your hand
where I pressed my lips
just to feel you shiver.

The pomegranates made a mess of us.

Red at the corner of your smile.
Red on my thumb.
A seed caught against your lip
before I kissed it away.
Your hand sliding into my hair,
gathering the dark length of it
at the nape
like you needed somewhere certain to hold.

Around us the box went dim and lush.
Leaves shifted without wind.
Fruit brushed the velvet.
Somewhere in the dark
another pomegranate split
with that small intimate sound
that made us both still
for half a breath
before you laughed against my mouth
and I kissed you again.

You were beautiful there.

Not politely.
Not at a distance.
Beautiful in the close way.
The dangerous way.
Mouth stained red.
Breath shorter now.
Hands all certainty.

I wanted everything at once.

Your mouth.
Your teeth.
Your laugh.
Your hands at my waist.
The shape of you in old stage light.
The orchard making a cathedral
out of appetite and velvet and ruined gold.

And the filthiest part
was not the fruit,
or the kisses,
or the private box gone hot with breath.

It was the way you touched me
like I was worth hunger.

Below us,
the empty seats faced the stage
as if still hoping
to be overwhelmed.

We gave them something close.

By the time we came back down,
my mouth was sweet and faintly bitter,
your hair more wrecked than before,
and the stage was littered with fallen seeds
like somebody had opened
a handful of tiny hearts
and left them glittering under the light.

You took one last pomegranate
from a low branch,
split it neatly with your thumbs,
and held one half out to me.

The seeds shone.
The house held its breath.

I took the fruit from your hands.
You watched me open it further.
Watched the juice run over my fingers.
Watched my mouth.

Then you said my name
like a curtain rising.

And somewhere high in the dark,
the opera house answered
with one soft drop,
one low echo,
one last round
of ruined applause.