I have this apple

I have this apple that I ate yesterday. It was really tasty and my favorite kind: honey crisp. It was small enough that it wasn't too much for a snack and ripe enough that when I cut into it with a knife and tasted it, it was crunchy and sweet. But I didn't want to eat this apple.

I didn't want it for all it represented to me. It was a perfect little apple borne of something unhappy. I got this apple from a fruit basket. A fruit basket that was given to us by my parents' accountant. The fruit basket had loads of other fruits and chocolates and fruit spreads from a great, well known place in Brooklyn. But we got it because it was a gift to the aggrieved. We had it in our house instead of my dad. How can a bunch of fruit soothe in times of loss I have no idea. This was a tasty apple and I hated every bite I took of it. It was awful and I wanted to throw it against the wall.

But I didn't. I had an apple. It was a good part of my lunch, good for me and my fruit serving for the day. It was the worst apple I ever had.