Lucy Rose

 I shelled out a nice chunk of change for this apple because the flesh is a little red inside. Wouldn't say I'm incredibly disappointed, I also don't claim to be deeply pleased. At least it's an apple. It's sweet like a Honeycrisp on a mediocre day. Not much complexity, but crispy enough to be noisy. I'll send the seed to my future orchard just to throw his genes into the wind.

The first bite compelled me to tell someone how red it wasn't. But there is no one to tell. Isolation is strange like that. You'd think the instinct to reach out would morph into a song that only you can hear. A song that stays between your own ears, not groovy enough to make you dance, but live enough to take you out of the moment. Instead, your hands still stretch in front of you, feeling their way through an empty space. Breaking through your own electromagnetic field just to find you on the other side of it, standing alone. 

I'm grateful that I had a pretty and safe apple to eat. I'm grateful that I can smile, even if the only one who can see it is me.