Peeling Pears in Notre Dame

A poem inspired by a line my friend gave me. Not based on actual events.

Peeling pears in Notre Dame,
  just sitting quietly.
You asked if they were ripe, and I said no.
Sharp blade cutting through Mother Nature,
  warm handle moulding my palm.
I prefer the skin off, you prefer it on.
  Not our only difference.
That first bite crunched, as if through skin to bone, skipping flesh.
Juice dribbled down our chins,
Erotic or just plain messy?

So many countries, so many memories
A cacophony, all simultaneously brought together in this one moment.
The blue and gold hair ribbon and the jealousy,
  the hotel room, crows in the hallway and the rolling hats,
  religion, Argonauts, lions, battles, and the journey home.

And our lady watched us,
Peeling pears in Notre Dame.