Apples are sometimes the size of a child’s fist and sometimes the size of a child’s head. Pink Ladies are my favorite. I say it’s because of the taste but mostly it’s for the name. I want to be the type of girl who people look at think, “Ah! That’s Ann. She favors Pink Ladies.” I want to push a small black cart piled with Pink Ladies and bottles of sparkling water and a long baguette around a gourmet grocery store.
Apples are wrapped in thin mottled skins and the pink of a pretty apple is a pink not found anywhere else in the world. The bloom of green at the stem into the pink around an apple’s belly with peach and brown undertones is remarkable. An unblemished apple has a shine like nothing else. If I could paint, I would paint apples. But I can’t paint, so I will eat apples instead. I don’t particularly love the taste of apples. They’re nothing special in my book. I do like carving bites out of them, and my favorite way to eat an apple is to chip out a large disk of the flesh with my teeth and then hold the chip in my fingers and eat it in a couple bites. Maybe this is why my front teeth have little chips along their hems. I don’t think front teeth are meant to be used quite so enthusiastically. A fresh apple’s flesh is white and carries just a bit of yellow. An old apple carries a lot of yellow in its body. Your bites turn the flesh brown quickly, and I feel badly for bruised apples and finish them quickly. Brown bruises are the ugliest bruises. This I know. I love to see a row of pink apples shining on my windowsill. They make me feel clean and healthy, though I’m neither of those. I’m more like one of those sad ass yellowish green pears marked with brown freckles and skinny at the neck and lumpy and swollen at the bottom. No shine whatsoever. I prefer to eat pears over apples but who wants to look at a row of pears, dented and bruised from fingertips and listing to the side like a row of fallen soldiers, so it’s apples that I line up.