I skim the skin from the custard. Underneath solid yellow smooth and mellow. Warm and sweet, ready to pour over my apple tart in a smooth stream. Sweet sugar sprinkled top not a tart tasting pie.
My skin is wrinkled like a last year’s apple. Blotched and scarred, marked and messed, bearing a life time of incidents and accidents, marks on knee from a playground fall at seven, small round chickenpox mark on my forehead, Caesarian scar and operation scar on my hip marking me as old and weathered.
Her skin is smooth and brown like caramel, sweet and lovely. I kiss her smiling face, stroke her long soft hair wishing I were twenty again.