The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: We Had Mansions by Mandy Shunnarah

---

marriage, as peaches rot on the counter

He’s the one who bought them; had the peaches
delivered from New Century CSA, the organic farm
the next county over. He’s the one who bakes,
coaxing pies & cobblers from Ohio’s fruits.

I’m more for simple pleasures. I eat my peaches raw, no
condiment adornment, not bothering to slice. Teeth
puncturing downy skin, juice trailing down jawline. Chin
working to contain the nectar before it catches my shirt.

Neither of us touches the peaches. I wait for him
to bake, not wanting to spoil his ingredients; he waits
for me to eat, not wanting to rob me of a snack. We
do not speak of the peaches, only watch as they transform

from succulent & squeezable to wrinkled & age-spotted,
rotting before our eyes. When the mottled fruit is too bruised,
too speckled with mold, too sunken as graying orange skin
reaches inward for its pitted core, I take the peaches to the compost.

We should have eaten those, he says. We should have talked
more, should have loved better, should have eaten the peaches
when they were ripe & full & round with possibility,
fresh from the farmer’s truck when we still had the chance.

Yes, my husband. There are many things we should have done.

---