Apple

I’m hungry. Maybe bored. Probably both.

I rummage in the crisper for something to eat.

There’s a plastic bag of woody carrots. And I’m out of hummus. But maybe. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

Hang on. Why’s there liquid in the drawer?

Ugh. The carrots are leaking. Something white and wet is sucking them onto the plastic.

Thankfully the lemons and apples are balanced on top, in a cardboard tray. Uninfected. If rubbery.

I’ve been telling myself I’m saving the apples for cooking. But let’s face it. I’ve no interest in cooking. Haven’t for a long while. Most days, even cutting a tomato or avocado is a bridge too far. Because, effort. Chopping board, knife. Then those need washing.

A rubbery or floury apple, however, is no joy to eat raw. It’s pure penance. Many’s the apple that ends up with the chickens, after one reluctant bite.

But, of these two apples, one is firmer. I’ll try.

Okay. It’s edible. Just barely, but it is. I manage one bite, and then the next. There’s a faint crispness. If I use my imagination, maybe I can dial it up to a crunch.

These supermarket apples are a far cry, of course. From the best I’ve tasted. They’re light on scent; low on taste. Stored well beyond their prime. Shipped across the continent—more than once. Waxed. Stickered. Wrapped in plastic. Jostled, picked over, bruised. Out of season.

My best apple came straight from the tree, in my childhood garden. It was slightly unripe. Tart and musted. Mouthfeel for days. A small apple, tiny—and big on everything that mattered. The live symphony orchestra of fruit.

A Coles apple, however. That’s like using a mono tape deck. Being generous. There’s a loud background taste, from the chemicals it’s been doused in.

Thanks to Deadlines for Writers for the inspo:
https://deadlinesforwriters.com/how-does-it-work-12-short-stories/
Photo from Pexels