Apples Aren't Salty
Apples Aren't Salty
She sinks down to a crouch at the back of her house, a small, heavy apple cradled in her hands. Rough bricks of the wall behind graze the sliver of skin that is exposed by her faded shirt and shorts. Denim hits the dirt ground with an inaudible 'thump'.
It is mid-afternoon, and the shadow of the roof just barely extends past her curled toes. Before her is the back garden, made up of a flat, sunbaked stretch of short grass. A stone-flagged path paves its straight way to the fence. The woods are beyond, a thicket of trees that are yellow-green in the sunlight.
She looks at the apple in her grubby hands, squeezes it a little. It remains a splotchy mix of red and yellow. There is a slight gnawing in her stomach that the fruit is supposed to cure, but for some reason, her hands feel too weak to lift it to her lips.
She supposes that they would obey her hunger if only she can get over the fact that James wasn't there for her when she needed him around.
That he did not notice her downcast eyes when he returned from that game with his friends, that he headed straight to bed moments later without so much as a good night hug.
Never mind that it is the afternoon.
She manages to raise the apple to her lips, but even they refuse to part. It feels warm against her flesh. She finds herself having to slowly coax her lips open for a bite, and even then, her teeth only nibble at the waxy, mottled skin.
He could have looked at her a little longer. If he did, he would have noticed the lack of a smile on her face.
The grass on the lawn is starting to dance in her vision, though she refuses to acknowledge that the wetness welling in her eyes makes them do so. She stares ahead, her fingers tightening around her apple. Enamel carves a notch into the paper-thin surface that yields with a crunch.
Maybe she is being petty and selfish. He has never demanded her attention on his part. Yet maybe - just maybe - she would have felt better with so much as a touch of his fingers on her cheek.
Her shoulders slump, and she feels the miniature dams crack and break. Twin trickles slide down the sides of her nose. They leave a damp warmth in their wake. The grass stops dancing.
Yet she insists that they are not there. She will not touch them, and they will go away. Her teeth sink further into the apple, prying a tiny chunk out.
Strange. Apples do not taste salty on their own.
Maybe, she thinks to herself, she is in some sort of self-denial, over the tears, the apple, and maybe over James. She doesn't know. And maybe he won't deign to explain, either.
She swallows. Air wavers unsteadily through her nostrils. The fruit remains firm beneath her fingers.
Then again, James might be a little more heedful when he wakes up.
She plucks a larger piece from the apple, watching as the sunlight before her feet shifts another hair's breadth away.
She sinks down to a crouch at the back of her house, a small, heavy apple cradled in her hands. Rough bricks of the wall behind graze the sliver of skin that is exposed by her faded shirt and shorts. Denim hits the dirt ground with an inaudible 'thump'.
It is mid-afternoon, and the shadow of the roof just barely extends past her curled toes. Before her is the back garden, made up of a flat, sunbaked stretch of short grass. A stone-flagged path paves its straight way to the fence. The woods are beyond, a thicket of trees that are yellow-green in the sunlight.
She looks at the apple in her grubby hands, squeezes it a little. It remains a splotchy mix of red and yellow. There is a slight gnawing in her stomach that the fruit is supposed to cure, but for some reason, her hands feel too weak to lift it to her lips.
She supposes that they would obey her hunger if only she can get over the fact that James wasn't there for her when she needed him around.
That he did not notice her downcast eyes when he returned from that game with his friends, that he headed straight to bed moments later without so much as a good night hug.
Never mind that it is the afternoon.
She manages to raise the apple to her lips, but even they refuse to part. It feels warm against her flesh. She finds herself having to slowly coax her lips open for a bite, and even then, her teeth only nibble at the waxy, mottled skin.
He could have looked at her a little longer. If he did, he would have noticed the lack of a smile on her face.
The grass on the lawn is starting to dance in her vision, though she refuses to acknowledge that the wetness welling in her eyes makes them do so. She stares ahead, her fingers tightening around her apple. Enamel carves a notch into the paper-thin surface that yields with a crunch.
Maybe she is being petty and selfish. He has never demanded her attention on his part. Yet maybe - just maybe - she would have felt better with so much as a touch of his fingers on her cheek.
Her shoulders slump, and she feels the miniature dams crack and break. Twin trickles slide down the sides of her nose. They leave a damp warmth in their wake. The grass stops dancing.
Yet she insists that they are not there. She will not touch them, and they will go away. Her teeth sink further into the apple, prying a tiny chunk out.
Strange. Apples do not taste salty on their own.
Maybe, she thinks to herself, she is in some sort of self-denial, over the tears, the apple, and maybe over James. She doesn't know. And maybe he won't deign to explain, either.
She swallows. Air wavers unsteadily through her nostrils. The fruit remains firm beneath her fingers.
Then again, James might be a little more heedful when he wakes up.
She plucks a larger piece from the apple, watching as the sunlight before her feet shifts another hair's breadth away.