The Sweet Apple

It took me three seconds to recognize her.

The conference room is full. She’s at the head of the table, briefing me and my colleagues on her business goals for the project. It’s straight, with a clear goal, but that doesn’t matter at all. She’s here. That’s the only thing that matters.

She concludes the meeting than stands up. We all stand with her, following her lead to our seats. I snatch up her business card, the one she passed along to all of us with the agenda and project objectives, but something’s weird. There’s ink on the back of mine.

It’s a phone number, a time, and a name of a bar.

#

It’s been 10 years since we spoke to each other, yet I sit in this small, but full bar with drinks that cost the same as full meals, people wearing casual clothes more expensive then my suit. If I cared, I would be focused on how much I stand out, but her being here, leading the project I’m working has still shocked my system. The odds are insane, like I need to pick up a lotto ticket before I get back to the hotel type of insane. At least if I win something, I can afford check out the rest of the city.

Twenty minutes, and still no sign of her. I order a stout, and after a few sips, I order some fries. The beer calms my nerves, and I stare the gooey loaded fries, covered with a blend cheese white and yellow, sprinkled in small pieces of brown that I hope is bacon, and small green rings of scallions. When the bartender slides me the second stout, I realize that the 9.6% alcohol content is not enough to calm my nerves, but strong enough to dull my senses. Half my fries are gone, and I don’t remember they taste like. The cheese is now cold, and the mysterious dried flakes prove to more aesthetic than flavorful. My phone tells me it’s 9pm and time to leave.

My walk to the hotel is long and cold. A shameful experience- my doubt doubles, and decide that coming to New York was dumb. I get a whiff of the city street, and the beer lurches in my stomach, forcing me to stop and brace myself, propping my torso forward with my hands on my knees, waiting for my night to get worse. The vomit refuses to show, and I continue to stumble on the road, wishing I just ordered a uber. In my head…I just want more time. I check my phone again, telling me that it’s 9:15pm, and that I’m a loser. Bile tickles my throat, and the sick decides to show up after all.

I wipe my freezing hand relieving the hotness on my cheek and mouth. There yellow on my hand from the previous cheese-like substance and I spew again. The street is gross, and somehow, I added more mess to this grimy block. I stumble around the former loaded fries and focus on the front desk my hotel. It’s the only think I really recognize- it’ so hard to differentiate the buildings, especially now that they’re blurring together. New York really needs to work on this.

“You look a mess.”

I stand up straight, realizing the voice is speaking and it’s familiar- almost like it’s her. I turn to confirm, and there she is. She smiles, wrapped up in a long coat, gloves, and a scarf.

God, I miss that smile.

Turn and walk away.

“Where are you going?” She asks, following me with loud clicks of her heels.

I don’t answer. I just power forward, drowning out the dubious excuses she gives, still walking behind me. I heard keywords of office and culture. She mentions that everybody leaves late. As I walk, I wonder where my anger is. It should be, ready to go, waiting for the command to fly into position, letting me fume at her for making me wait. The jet isn’t ready though. I’m nervous that she came at all.

Her hand pulls at my shoulder, spinning me to face her. My orientation doesn’t appreciate the gesture, my legs failing to control my momentum. I lean into her and she catches me, securing my place in the upright position. My footing returns and I stand at eye level, looking at the first green I’ve seen since I landed in JFK.

“You’re hotel’s back that way.”

Inside the hotel bar, I get the full story. She was nervous too. She does tend to leave late, but her folly was the time she gave. She could have left on time, but it was easiest to open a few emails, and then a few emails became a lot and 9pm snuck up on her, filling her with guilt. I tell her about the fries. She laughs. She agrees that its not the best place to get fries. She offers up a place she can show me later in the week if I’m still interested in finding good New York fries. I respond with a question.

“How did you know I was in this hotel?”

“It’s the only hotel you firm books in the city. I took a chance.”

She takes a sip from her drink. “Plus, there’s always tracker I left on you”

I sip on my water. Its cool, leaving a taste I didn’t expect. I stare at the glass, so I don’t stare at her.

“It was just a joke.” She says.

“I trust you.” I answer.

“You haven’t spoken to me in 10 years.”

The laughter in her voice is gone. The session sours. I don’t shy away from her somberness. Just looking at her makes all of this seem unreal.

“What?” She asks, showing her vulnerability for the first time in in all these years.

“I still trust you.”

She looks at her drink. She orders another. Looking back at me, she glances at the water, then turns back to the bartender, adding another drink to the order. I finish my delicious water, and soon the bartender slides me a stout similar to hers. She raises it in my direction, making a toast.

“To 10 years.” She smiles.

“To 10 years.” I respond, holding my beer, clinking glasses with her.

#

In my bed, she turns to me, covering herself up, eyes beaming at me. Her curly hair frames her portrait. Her freckles detail the cuteness in her face. She’s been well over the years- not that she hasn’t in the past, but I don’t remember her glowing this much. She smiles.

“Did you hear me?” She asks.

“Oh, sorry.” My eyes blink, pulling my gaze away from her, trying to refocus on her. “No, what did you say?”

She shakes her head, shaking of her original questions.

“What did you go just now- where’s your head at?”

“It’s here. I just…can’t believe I’m here.”

She grabs my hand, thumbing at my fingers, palm, and knuckle, just like she used to do before. Before we separated and lived different lives, only to come back here.

“I asked…if you still write.” She said.

“No. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Why?”

The answer is too long and the moment is too special. I haven’t written anything new since…since I moved away. I left that here, not bringing much with me in the new portion of my life. It dried up when I left. The world became narrow, leaving only one path- get a job that makes money, and with the job, craft a life the world wants. Focus on what everybody else is doing- keep heads down and don’t ask question. Don’t question why to collect amass of unnecessary items, just do it, and pretend that everything is okay. A normal fucking life- one that I don’t want.

I realized that I haven’t answered the question.

“I haven’t really made the time...”

“You should.” She says. “I’ve always enjoyed your writing.”

“Thank you.” I remember the many smiles she gave me after reading my work. It matches the one she has now. I miss it.
Something in her expression sours. Still looking down, her smile fades, and she drags her finger, accented with a white coating on the fingernail, up at down her arm. I watch this, watching her drift into whatever uncomfortable question she’s going to ask. She looks up to ask.

“Are you heading back home for the weekend?”

It had been my intention to do so. I even played to catch the earliest flight out on Friday, letting everybody know I was bring the work with me, and I’ll have updates on Monday. Thinking about what my home was, it just felt empty. I had no real reason to go, and it was going to be there regardless of what I do, and when I eventually go back.

“I don’t have to.”

The smile return, and she shimmers closer to me, nestling her head in my chest. I wrap my arms around her, and everything feels better. Everything feels whole. Everything feels warm.

Ten years felt like no time at all.