Gerald spots an attractive, mature single lady across the Leg of Lamb pub, who has just received her order. She's alone but looks as if she's awaiting somebody's return.

Being an attentive sort of chap, Gerald had registered the lady earlier and seen her company. Another lady friend, not as attractive, a little older. His drink is low, he gulps the remainder down and settles the glass on the table among the modest collection glasses.  His old drinking partner had nodded off between sentences some minutes ago. 

Gerald leaves his seat and approaches the lady at the bar.

"Do you peel skin?" he asks the lady from behind her shoulder, as he draws up to the bar.

Martha isn't sure if it’s her that's being addressed, and turns her head back querulously. Then their eyes meet properly, she sees Gerald's handsome high cheek-bones, nice thick hair and good suit, and she smiles.

"Well," she says, "not normally. Only socially."

"Oh, er, come on," he feels brave, almost imperceptibly leans forward. "Won't you join me? One won't kill you, surely?"

Martha is easily swayed, and accepts a proffered banana from Gerald's packet. She smiles again and takes the large fruit in her hand.

"I'm terribly sorry," Gerald says, having sat down on the stool next to her. He takes back the banana and begins peeling it for Martha.

"Oh, thank you," Martha half laughs at his old fashioned gentleman’s values.

"I'm Gerald, by the way," says Gerald, and they shake hands briefly, politely. "I’m, um, sorry if I was too forceful just now. I don’t normally, well ever really..."

"- Oh, not at all. I’m Martha," says Martha, sweeping some of her long dark hair behind her ear.

"Martha? How nice, pleased to meet you," Gerald effortlessly strips the skin back on three sides. The ways he does it is so perfect it looks clinical, surgical. He gives away his twenty-a-day habit.

"Likewise," Martha says and takes back her banana.

"Mm, what do you do for a living, Martha?" asks Gerald, as he takes another banana from the packet and begins stripping himself one in a similar fashion.

"I'm an, artist," Martha says, sucking on the top end of the fruit, softening it.

"Oh, really?! That's funny, because I, er," Gerald's train of thought dips momentarily as he finds Martha's bananing erotic in a way he's never found anybody else's, "..um, I frame pictures."

"Oh. Well my work isn't usually of the framed variety," she takes a large bite of the softened area of banana.

"No?" he bites, chews delicately.

"No," she swallows, it slides down sensuously. Gerald tracks its progress down her beautifully elegant gullet and tries to remain composed. "It's more contemporary, sculptures and modelling," she says dismissively.

"Oh I see."

"Mm. This is lovely, thank-you," she indicates the banana, of which only a quarter remains.

"Good. Glad you like it. I personally think it's rubbish that they're bad for your health."

"Well the tests are proven," she says in a patronising tone.

"I know but... Well it's so good."

"You banana quite a lot don't you?"

"Does it show?"

"Yes, but in a good way."

"Oh," Gerald flushes into his banana, Martha smiles, "thank-you," he says.

"Why, hello there!" a confident, demanding voice sounds over their shoulders.

"Floela," Martha says as they turn around. It's the slightly older, less attractive one Gerald had registered earlier. "Meet Gerald. Gerald, this is my friend, Floela."

Gerald disposes his banana skin in the chique skin-bin on the bar, discreetly wipes his hand with a napkin and offers his hand. "Delighted to meet you, Floela," Gerald says shaking her roughly textured hand and feeling not at all delighted but cleverly appearing as if genuinely delighted.

Floela smiles weakly and looks stifled by the odour of banana. Martha has nearly finished her banana but is intent on savouring every last morsel all the way down to the tip. "Martha, darling, would you mind doing away with your banana, put it in the skin-bin. You know how their odour affects my chest. - I have terrible allergies, you see," she says aside to Gerald.

"Well actually, Floela, dear, I'm rather enjoying this one. You know how I don't normally indulge - for obvious reasons - but on the few occasions I do, I like to enjoy it."

"Well, I!... Really, Martha!" Floela says, looking utterly horrified by Martha's stand. Martha remains unruffled, sucks on a small part of banana, then swallows. Oh, how she swallows. Gerald's embarrassment and awkwardness at his presence is diverted by another trace of banana passing down Martha's throat.

"You don't have to stand here," Martha says. "Besides, I'll be finished in a minute," Martha justifies in her unruffled fashion.

"Such behaviour! Where has this come from?!" Floela looks accusingly, her glare grazing Gerald's forehead, making him stand and attempt to excuse himself, "I'm sorry for disturbing you. Lovely to meet you both."

Martha extends her hand - smoother and more feminine than you might expect from an artist, perhaps even manicured - grabs Gerald's wrist and says, "You don't have to go. I'm sorry about her," then mouthed behind her hand, "awful prude." A spluttered laugh is emitted from Gerald's mouth without his control. Martha's eyes twinkle cheekily, intoxicated.

Floela stands looking teacherly, "What did you just say?! This is just downright rudeness, Martha. Really it is! Well you've made your point, and that's fine." Floela collects her jacket and handbag from the back of a stool the other side of Martha, haughtily stomps out of the Leg of Lamb.

Martha giggles to herself. Gerald, still standing, entirely baffled by the exchange, stops looking between the two women as if trying to judge how to cross a busy road of zoo animals.

"Um," he says.

"Sit down, Gerald," Martha orders.

"Right," Gerald sits down, catches the barmaid’s eye. "Can I have a large Scotch please? -Sorry, would you like a drink?" he says to Martha.

"No thank you, I'm fine," Martha covers the top of her half-full glass, as is unconsciously customary when declining the offer of another drink.

"Ice?" the mousey barmaid asks politely.

"Please."

A large Scotch with ice slides over the bar in front of him. Money is exchanged. Gerald reassumes his stool.

"I'm sorry about her," Martha nods to the recently used door. "My landlady who desperately wants to be my friend. Is it any wonder she has none of her own? I normally try to appease her as best I can."

"Oh, I see," Gerald says, not fully seeing but cleverly appearing as if he sees. He sips his drink, she sips hers.

"What sort of pictures do you frame?" Martha asks.

"Any sort really. Anything anyone wants framed, we frame it. Classic prints or ordinary personal, family pictures..."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I've done it years now. ‘Get's me by,’ as they say."

"-Do you find me attractive, Gerald?" asks Martha suddenly.

"I, er, yes well you're a good-looking lady," Gerald says, growing flushed. Flustered, he focuses on her forehead in an attempt to reduce the burning sensation filling his face.

"Thank you," Martha says, dropping her tone, her well-bred voice transform into velveteen tones, "you're a good-looking man too, Gerald." She looks into his eyes. He's brave enough to return the gaze momentarily. He's doing better, trying to appear more confident is making him more confident. This is fine, good, he tells himself. She takes hold of his hands, both his inside both hers. Her exposed knee touches his. Something rumbles in the basement of his body.

"Lovely nail-varnish," he says.

She leans even closer towards him, she smells impossibly good. He can't resist a glance down at her chest as she turns to whisper into his ear:

"Would you like to see my flat?" she says, enfolding his hands in hers, then slowly beginning to tickle the back of his hand with the nail of her forefinger. "I want to give you... I want to give you apples." She leans away from him, still holding his hands, still touching knees.

"A-pples?" he checks, still not quite believing.

"Apples," she mouths in confirmation. He’s hypnotised by her mouth, from the welcoming ‘ah,’ to the pout of the ‘ps,’ to the tipped tongue of ‘le,’ to the rested yet audible hissing ‘sss.’
He pins Martha's look with a consuming confidence he has never felt before in his life, smiles knowingly and nods, praying he's not dreaming again. Gerald hasn't been given apples in years.