The Orchard

Dark sky,

Bright moon,

Bleeding starlight reflects off crimson apples.

Smooth leaves,

Rough bark,

Gnarled trees bent with age.

Short man,

Tall woman,

Ladders for both.

Quiet night,

Loud footsteps,

Hushed laughter echoes in between.

One apple in the bucket,

One apple eaten,

Two mouths tasting sweet fruit.

Hard features,

Soft shadows,

One silhouette against the trees.

Two apples in the bucket,

One figure alone,

No lights but the moon.

Soft features,

Gaping shadows,

Two silhouettes frame the sky.

Red lips,

Blue eyes,

One hand held by two.

One soft sentence,

One hard word,

Two together,

Two alone.

Elegant silver stars,

Crude brown earth,

Red anger stains both.

Brown trunks,

Green leaves,

Hearts bleeding like crushed apples.

Suit of white,

Dress of blue,

Inked by sorrow and shadow.

White knuckle,

Black ring,

Fist quivering in the dark.

Furrowed brow,

Parted lips,

A diamond band falls to the ground.

Mysterious stars,

Inimitable moon,

The celestials watch the earth.

A whispered word,

A backwards glance,

The darkness parts for a shooting star,

Short man,

Tall woman,

Pain for both.

An apple thrown,

A bruise received,

The man falls into shadow.

Dark sky,

Bright moon,

In the orchard hearts bleed.

The man stalks away, his features a cliff face upon which emotions paint themselves against his will. He leaves the orchard, throwing his suit jacket to the ground like a dirty rag. He gets in his car, then remembers that he had driven Elayne here.

The sleek BMW roars out of the dirt lot like a leopard exploding from its crouch, accelerating wildly onto the main road.

In the orchard, the woman picks apples. She picks apple after apple by the light of the moon, examining each before throwing it away as if it were poisonous as death.

She throws them because none are perfect enough. Each has some sort of blemish, or break in the skin, or flaw somewhere. They represent her—never perfect enough, no matter what she does or says. They represent her relationship with Mark—always a flaw or false patch.

So she throws them away, picking apples long into the night.

A single tear rolls down her cheek.