…then let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name.
I’m hysterical. Sitting there, Paul taps his lips. Nothing. He gets up out of the shade, he taps again, nothing in the sun. Against the tree. Nothing. He breaks a branch, and this time, something. A hollow, almost white, sound drips. ‘Hear that? What is that?’ Paul spits pieces of sand.
He takes a scarf, it wraps around his mouth. A bow sits beneath his nose. It flutters in the wind, his hands dangle like lace. He looks to the sky, he falls flat. The bow wiggles like a mustache, a little mustache itching his lips. I hear a moan, it is a light hum, Paul’s socks roll in the dirt.
I watch the socks tumble in the wind. I loose sight as they cross between trees, then, I see them trickling back. Is that them? I think. Yes. I can smell them. But they roll on, the white kicking up dust, till I see a little red flash. More flashes. Oranges. The socks turned into oranges.
Spinning, I watch the fruits. Across the dust the fruits shave. The bounce, one off the other, force little pink spots to appear.
I look at Paul, Paul is turning yellow. I watch his hands melt to his sides, he has turned into a banana. But the scarf sits still, little red strings dangle in a ring.
And as I turn looking for the oranges, I turn in a circle, looking again at Paul. Two little pink-orange dots sit below the bow. Streams of liquid drip along the banana ridges. And then I see a little dark yellow spot, the banana has peeled a little. A little fruit has split just above Paul’s bow.
‘A little fruit of the lips,’ I hear Paul say, ‘a little sacrifice.’