Oranges at his feet
‘Can you smell those oranges?’
‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you some.’
The orange trees were further up the valley. The fruit were small, but deep gold, and she picked half a dozen without even having to stand on tiptoe; the auriferous branches hung low to the ground. She walked back, balancing them in her cupped hands against her breasts. Tony was lying by the edge of the pool; she saw his eyes on her, admiring, and smiled with pleasure. When she got to him, she stooped and rolled the oranges at his feet. His eyes had not left her.
‘Shall I peel them for you, too?’ she asked him.
‘Not yet.’ He caught her ankle with his hand. ‘You refresh me.’