The Apple

There were only three things on the table: the book, the journal, and the apple.

She took the book before he could get to it, so he picked the journal up instead and sat on the couch. She seated herself on the sofa across the room.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“You wanna eat that apple?”

He looked at the apple on the table. It shone under the fluorescent light.

“I’m hungry, but not for apples,” he said. A few random things crossed his mind — blueberry pancakes, chicken cordon bleu, crispy pata — but none of these seemed very appealing.

“What are you hungry for?”

He liked how she phrased that question. She sometimes has a subtly strange way of structuring her sentences.

“I don’t know.”

He opened the journal and reached into his pocket for a pen. It’s been ages since he last wrote anything. His mind was as blank as the pages on his lap.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“A little bit,” she replied.

“Why don’t you eat the apple?”

“Don’t you want it?”

“I do.”

“You can have it.”

“It’s okay. I’m really not that hungry.”

“But you can have it if you want it.”

“No, it’s okay. You can have it.” He stood up and held the apple. It felt smooth and cold in his hand. He walked towards the girl.

“No, please, you can have it. It’s yours. Like I said, I’m only a little bit hungry. Besides, apples only rank third in my list of favorite fruits.”

“All right.” He returned the apple to the center of the table and took his seat again.

“If you’re not hungry for apples, what specifically are you looking for?”

Only she can ask these sorts of questions.

“Well, I can’t really say. It’s hard to describe. It’s either something really sweet, something really salty, or just something in between. I was thinking of blueberry pancakes, actually.” He laughed a short sort of laugh. “But then I was also thinking of chicken fillet or pork meat or something. In short, I really don’t know what I want. For all I know, I may be looking for a food that is altogether non-physical. Maybe what I’m really looking for is an idea that I can gobble with my mind or an emotion that I eat with my heart.”

She liked how he phrased his words. He oftentimes has a not-so-subtly strange way of expressing himself. Most people are only covertly strange. He is overtly weird.

“So it’s either something concrete or something abstract?” she asked.

“Yeah. Do you know what you want?” he asked.

“I do.”

He waited for her to continue. “Well?”

She brushed her hair aside and continued reading the book.


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