Peaches Aefresh: A Rebuttal

My Good Sir,

A certain correspondence of yours regarding the virtues of particular Prunus persicas was very recently brought to my attention. First, I must make quite clear that I, too, am a fellow fervent peach lover myself. Which brings me to the purpose of this present post.

Please, take not offense at my saying so, but had I been in Miss Rosy Peach’s position, I might have behaved in like fashion. Do allow me a few words more on this matter. You rightly articulated the delicacy of scent and general transcendence of the peach; nonetheless, it is my own humble opinion that the camaraderie of which you spoke is perhaps ambitioned by an ulterior motive.

I have yet to discern from whence that motive stems in the smooth talking of Mrs. Smooth on the purity of one Mr. Harry, but provided time and peachly company I am convinced it could be discovered. In the instance of Mr. Soft, I do believe the provocation of his bellowed implications was the aim of your discourse, for it would not be unbeknownst to a fellow of your intricate knowledge of such peaches that a vivacious peach is more delectable than one of a subdued nature.

Let me be not mistaken; I am deeply empathetic for your peachless state at the abandonment of ruddy Miss Rosy. Despair not, though. With winsome words many a peach before has been persuaded against reason’s beckoning. Perchance the blushing Miss Velvet Peach would be a suitable candidate, as it has been told me that she is one for words.

May you find your golden balance and a pristine peach companion when motives have been mended and set firmly on benevolent foundations.

Perspicaciously peaching,

kt

Peaches Aefresh

o timothy!

in the peach, I have found notable beauty, delicate scent, surpassing smoothness, vibrant color, succulent sweetness, and... camraderie. Yes. Speaking precisely here.

just the other day, I noted to Mrs. Smooth (a peach I redeemed from the village market) that Mr. Harry (a country peach from the hills) could be a little tough around the edges, but that he had a heart of gold, right down to his very core. She didn't say anything about it, but peaches are quiet folk by and large, anyways. In fact, only 8 of them have ever spoken to me.

I remember the day well. I was telling Mr. Soft that he needed to stand a little more firmly for his convictions. Suddenly, he began to bellow implications. Yes. Implications! He got so worked up that he had a little bit of a meltdown in my... my mouth.

Another time, I was having a very romantic dinner with Miss Rosy Peach. It was just the two of us, sitting very close, looking out on a sunset on the edge of a cliff. I was waxing eloquent about her many physical, emotional, spiritual, and metaphorical attributes which I felt had drawn us to each other, when she suddenly interrupted and said quite plainly: "I don't think it was meant to be..." and immediately rolled herself off the edge of the cliff. I was peachless: a man peeled of pleasure, pitted against fate.

Fate. That constant eventuality which simultaneously defibrilates our psyche with pandemonium and peace? The modicum is insoluble, the extremity ethereal. How shall we stand still then, while the air quakes with verdant note and screaming color? Perhaps balance is golden.

Perhaps to Peach.

jh