The Apple

I reached into the cool interior of the refrigerator and lifted a large Fuji apple. I pulled off the sticker and washed it carefully, dried it with a clean paper towel. We sat at the dining room table together. We were alone and I could afford to take my time.

I gazed carefully at the apple. The skin was of a variegated shade, riddled with greens and yellow amidst light red speckled stripes. I told the apple how beautiful it looked, approaching it like a lover. Then I bit, deliberately, thoughtfully.

The exact texture I prefer, hard and crunchy. The juice ran over the edge of the bite and fell onto the table. Surprise delighted me. The sweet inner voice, the mad poet within, encouraged me, inviting me to slow down, close my eyes and taste the apple with my whole body. “This is how we make love,” the voice cooed, and as I was delectably entwined in the experience I didn’t think to laugh or find it ridiculous.

Sweet and refreshing, the apple tasted more distinct and unique than when I normally gobble one unconsciously. It tickled my lips, lifting a giggle across the threshold. I marveled at the white filaments on the inside and the texture tickled my tongue. Aroused, my senses taut, the apple and I were mingling, dancing, singing a song of mutual enjoyment and grace as we became one.

I remembered myself then, slipped on a pebble of fear. Feeling silly and self-conscious, I almost denigrated the experience, but stopped myself in time. The enjoyment of sensual delights heightens when shared, and what better friend to impart joy than one’s self?

Written for Poetics - Foodloose @ dVerse</a>