Apples

apples

The smell of sweet, tart, apples drift from inside the kitchen. Lazy afternoon sunshine stream in through the thin curtains, casting a long shadow on the floor. I tap my pen against the tattered, yellowing journal, as I recall the day- jigsaw pieces of grocery lists, bookshop receipts and coffee drunk.

The sunlight creeps onto the rough table and illuminates the glass jar of folded paper, of small slips and of blue words. It shines through the tall glass of water, leaving a wavy, moonshine-like glow on the wooden table.

The apple scent grows stronger, mingling with a sweet aroma of butter and sugar. I start doodling in the diary, scarred with scribbles and loops and letters. A sketch of a pie appears, followed by a delicate and more detailed flower, cross-hatched with shades and shadows.

And the pen stops, as I begin tapping again, zoning out and staring into blank space. Warmth slowly takes my hands into its own, as the light inches hungrily onto my fingers. The scent of the apple pie is even stronger, now, and all I can think about is picking apples of all shapes and colours in my imaginary garden, about swimming in a golden sea of apple pie filling, about stuffing pie into an apple–

The timer goes off. Reverie lost.

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