I plucked a large apple from the Ballerina apple tree today. It had a velveteen covering over it, which I smudged off with my thumb and forefinger. Then, by instinct, I rolled it on my dress to make it shine. To shine an apple is one of those unspoken, unfathomable rituals. I took a bite. A big bite. The skin was warm, as was the flesh. For a few seconds, there was a heady feeling of rememberance. That of my younger years, scrumping apples from the local allotments. (Scrumping: Brit. to steal fruit (esp. apples) from trees ). My apple tasted like the apples on my scrumpage, all those years ago. Pure and unadulterated Rosaceae-family goodness.
The Machinist was floating in the pool. I handed him the apple, and he took it and bit into it without question. Then he took another bite. And another. Silently, he handed me the core. It was already turning brown - due to the intense heat of the day. I tossed the apple over the fence and into the paddock, and wondered if another apple tree would one day spring up in the middle of nowhere.