“No, not *those* apples, Mrs. Extra Ordinary. Because you are.”
She blushed through the anger, turning her cheeks a deep, winesap 2 times red. She throws the apple just picked away. It clunks into the grass beyond the tree, bouncing and rolling several feet beyond its landing spot. Poison, she understood, eyeing it from perhaps 20 feet away now. Or too close for comfort. She brings the basket of the already plucked fruit over for me to look at too.
“How about these?”
“1 bad, all bad,” I say, thinking I see the first malignant worm wriggling amongst the batch despite not trying too hard. “Here, take my hand Let’s get you out of here.”
She hesitated. “W-what about the pie? The pie I’m suppose to cook for…” She turned to the 3 story, 5 bedroom, green with white trim house with attached double garage and rental loft. She couldn’t remember the name of her husband. She looked for him amongst the many windows hoping his figure would jar her memory… no one home. She also couldn’t remember the year she bought the house, the year, period. Paradise, but false in nature?
“The pie can wait until a better place,” I say, still holding the hand out. Will this work? I think. I had to try.
—–
“How could you not remember you were married to the sheriff of Fox County? I’m the most important man around (!).”
“I know. It was just a silly dream.” Still she wondered what would have happened if she would have taken that hand, be led somewhere else.
There. The apples are washed. No worms or other abnormalities spotted. Silly dream.
“I’ll be back in 2 hours for that pie,” he said while standing, have other matters to attend to in the meantime. Important matters for an important person. She knew her place. (TBC?)
Sunklands 