I, Apricot

by Tamarah Rockwood

I reject the apricot calling. It’s the color of seashells that live near the equator that I will never see on the pebbly northwest shores near me; or of sunsets after a storm, or the color of a fresh bruise, or a warm tiki masala. But I am none of these things despite a long stretch of metaphor or flirty talk at the bar when I’m chatting up a strange man only in order to make a monumental exit with a grand flair, like saying, “but what do I know.” and smirking my way to the exit. This exit, for clarity, is for me; although it could be for the man to drink a stiff aperitif of virility, a sip of an apricot liquor that tastes like a dirt road and smells like valve oil that spilled in the trunk but tastes like sweet lip gloss that that one girl wore a little after it was in style. But I am not that apricot, like the girl in high school, like the unattainable shell, there a consumable dish.