With that brief word of encouragement he lifted it toward his mouth. His blinded eyes seemed to want to cherish the sight that had been denied them these last ten years. I could see relaxation overtake the wrinkled muscles of his face from the fresh aroma waffling from the fruit. “Nothing better than a ripe Angelus,” he replied. Moisture was beginning to drip from the corner of his mouth.
He was right.
The poisoned peach dropped and lay on the tile floor. No more negotiations would be necessary. He always had loved his fruit more than me.
Written for the 100 Word Prompt Website for November 2014