I follow his hands. The fruits are unbelievably red, a saturated, Technicolor crimson that doesn’t exist in real life. As I watch, Bastian selects one slowly. He raises it to his eyes and turns it this way and that, as if he’s inspecting it for flaws. His tattooed thumb traces the curve of its surface, pressing just slightly to test the firmness of the yielding flesh.
He brings it to his mouth.
The juice runs down his chin, bright and glistening, catching the light like melting rubies. My mouth goes dry and my tongue feels thick and useless behind my teeth. I watch a single droplet slide along the sharp line of his jaw and down the column of his throat until it disappears beneath the collar of his jacket.
He still hasn’t said a word.
Until he crooks one finger at me and says, “Come her
