In retrospect, buying the bulk pack of peaches to eat at work was a mistake. Fresh peaches are the barbecue ribs of the fruit world. There’s no way to eat a good one properly and cleanly at the same time. They’re an embarrassing food to eat in the company of others, unless they’re making a mess right alongside you. Sure, you could take a knife and delicately carve the peach away from the stone, and then slice it up into chunks, but that’s like the guy who delicately lifts a pork rib by the bone, shaves away the meat with a knife and then forks it into their mouth. Nobody likes that guy. That guy’s an asshole who should’ve just bought a burger or something. So there’s nothing for it but to take a big bite, and let the juice squirt everywhere and drip all over the chin. It’s only in this moment that the comparison to a vagina seems vaguely apt. A coworker looks over and grins at the mess you’re making. “How you liking that peach?” You nod and smirk around your mouthful of peach flesh and mumble “Erm!” but inside you’re thinking “Fuck you. Smug son of a bitch.” You realized too late as peach juice drips onto the table that you didn’t prep a napkin. You can’t put the peach down, though, that’ll just compound the mess you’ll have to clean up. You walk over to the breakroom sink, half-eaten peach in one hand, the other raised up, trying to not touch anything, like a surgeon prepping for the operating room. You hover over the sink, finishing the peach, then do your best to turn the water on with your wrists and elbows. There are five peaches left. Next time, maybe you’ll stick to bananas.