"The Peach" by Simon DarvellWhen her hand rubbed against the peach’s furry skin, fear dropped into her stomach as though a trapdoor had been sprung.
They were edging up the queue, Ruben in front of her, tapping their passports faster and harder against his thigh. He turned to her and tried to smile. “What’s wrong, Federica? You’re pale.” “Just nerves.” He kissed her clammy forehead. “No need to be. We tripled checked everything. We’re good.” As he turned back, she shoved her hand back into her handbag, rifling past tampons, her purse and pocket mirror and back to the interloping fruit. Twenty meters ahead, airport security officials were leading people away from the security zone. The unlucky few glanced back at the people in the queue, holiday makers and immigrants, monotone and anxious under the cameras and the barrels of semi-automatic weapons. They could hear the drawl of a seated official. “Almost there,” said Ruben. “Ruben.” “What?” “I have a peach.” “A peach!” “Don’t shout!” “Where?” “In my bag.” They stared at one another, Ruben stupefied, Federica fearful. “I asked you so many times.” “What do I do?” “You’re always so vacant.” “This is not the time for making a point. Should I tell someone?” “Do what you want, like always.” Ruben turned his back on her. “Really, Ruben?” “I’m sick of repeating myself.” The official sat up when she saw their expressions. “Oh, for god sake,” said Federica, pushing past her fiancée. “Sorry, but I have a peach!” She held it aloft. There was an audible intake of air. “Come with me, ma’am?” said an enormous man in black uniform and sunglasses. “Gladly.” “Is that man with you, ma’am?” he asked as he steered her away. With a face like she’d bitten into the peach and found it rotten, she said, “Yes.”
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