Fruit

Daniel squinted one eye to the midday sun and reached up to pick an apple from a tree; a line of sweat rolled down his arm as he released the apple into a basket. A flickering image of Anne's blushing shoulder and lowered lashes played in his memory.

Anne first observed him on a train to Brooklyn. There was something about his white t-shirt above and his youthful sternum beneath. His skin was healthy and brown and glowing. His long legs were braced by a canvas duffel bag and his hands were busy with a novel. Anne craned her neck to read the title, but she could not. She was sure it was something good, however. (They don't publish crummy novels with ribbon placeholders.) In a plastic bag by his side rolled two mangoes and a peach.

The skins of Daniel's apples were honey bleeding into rosy hues. He polished the curve of the fruit with his thumb and took a bite. Leaning against the shade of an apple tree, he gingerly stretched his legs along the orchard floor. Caterpillars had grown fat with their hole-punching of leaves, and some of the fallen apples were bruised and rotting.

In Manhattan, bricks and concrete sidewalks attempted to tame the roots of trees. But New York green was rebellious. Anne enjoyed how carelessly tree roots disrupted, dispelled frail cement, cracked and formed impassable sidewalk mountains and crevices. She placed her hands between the small of her back and the tree and pointed her converse towards the bistro.

He was young, vibrant, alive and in the sunlight.

She felt more like skimmed milk.

Until they kissed. And his lips spread a honey-glow through her limbs.