The Apple Orchard.
A story of her & him.
“Because pants would’ve been such a better idea.”
She said it with sweetness and sass like a raspberry pie served over the holidays. He heard it and diverted his attention away from the conversation he was engaging with and aimed his eyes her way and did the elevator glance, traversing all floors twice. She saw him and sipped her drink. He looked away and went back to his conversation. But she kept an eye on him.
He mixed a drink, delivered an inside joke, partook in a toast, and inspected his peripherals. She smiled at each junction then returned to whatever it was someone was saying to her. Then she wanted to play and needed a partner. He needed a refill and was heading to retrieve one when she raised an eyebrow at him. Thank God for proximity sometimes. She asked and he agreed to partake.
“Hope you’re good.”
He was. He drained his first four shots. She missed all hers. But they laughed and drank and a tension grew inside him like an appendage with excess blood. He rambled. She noticed and allowed it, sipping her drink and looking his way as much as possible. He drained another shot, raised his right hand, open palm, looked at her elbow and expected her to do the same, and she remained: hand on hip, eyes looking at his, a consistent breathing that showed she was in control. Then they lost.
“Guess that’s game.”
He offered to make her a drink. But this wasn’t Gatsby’s party, Rick’s Bar, a bluff with James Dean ready to play chicken, or The Geek trying to win over Sam Baker. This was five months ago: doors opened because people opened them themselves, the wrong people exited elevators first, and letters with personality in the handwriting never saw a first draft. But she agreed to his offer of a drink and intended to enjoy the awkwardness, add fuel to its fire if she had to.
“So, when do I get to hear a pickup line?”
He didn’t know how to reply. She added to his troubles with a giggle, an elevator glance of her own, and an exhalation that made him want to give her air. So, he explored his mind, hacking through bad idea after bad idea, unsure what words to use to impress her, and he felt sure their time together would pass and he would be left with nothing to smile and get excited about the next day, so he resorted to cliche: shots. She agreed. Her and him did shots then did them again and his feeling from before had a growth spurt. Because: he was still alone with her.
Such was the way of her and him in the beginning.
“She’s coming with her?”
His friend reassured him things had been planned and they were going to be enacted. He sat in his chair like an innocent man waiting and expecting to be told he was guilty. Thirteen minutes later than was expected, she showed up with her friend — also known as his friend’s girlfriend. He wanted to stand to greet her and she could tell. So, she gave him shit for not ordering a pitcher before she and her friend arrived. Then he ordered two pitchers to make up for it. When they arrived, he poured her first beer like a chemist measuring an unstable compound.
Her friend and his friend played matchmaker: kept up a steady consumption, highlighted features, pinpointed similarities, laughed in abundance when it wasn’t called for, and obliged and offered to leave when it was evident their work was done.
“So, what do you want to talk about?”
He ordered another pitcher, hoping libations could be sewn into conversation. The pitcher arrived and she admired his pour and thanked him for it. But she didn’t let him off the hook, sending him back to hack through the mess in his brain like a 17th century pirate searching for the almighty “X” on a deserted island. He took a long swig of beer to buy time. He snapped his knuckles. And he looked her in the eye. Then he asked her for a secret — big or small, embarrassing or showy, tantalizing or off-setting. And she told him she wrote book reports by candlelight. But not for every book she read. The good books, the ones that found her at the right time, needing a diversion, and curved her view and worldliness — those were the books she wrote reports on.
“And I always write them with apple scented candles close by.”
He hadn’t written a book report in fifteen years but became fascinated by their apparent necessity. And the candles? Well, he didn’t tell her he tended to be allergic to scented candles. Instead, he asked about the books she had written reports on, asked why she enjoyed them, asked what they gave her, asked what books she thought he might like, and he made a point to be silent and attentive each time she answered his questions. Then he walked her home.
She took the first step towards her apartment door and he left his hands in his pockets. The minor banter during her and his walk had been a treat. His aptitude for silence was different from the repetitive nuisances she found herself around and couldn’t understand why. So, she invited him up for a drink and they finished a bottle of whisky and he rambled: ambitions, failures, past loves, and books he read he might write book reports on. She had to kiss him to shut him up. And then they made noise together.
“Guess this is happening?”
They had a fight then they had makeup sex. First time for everything in a relationship. The natural temperature had been decreasing all week. Soon, there would be the matter of leaves not looking as they had while her and him waltzed through the honeymoon phase of whatever it was her and him were doing. She put on her pants. He was happy to be in his boxers, replaying the previous fourteen minutes.
“How about you act like you’ve done it before?”
His grin went away and one formed on her face. He analyzed it: subtle in its need to form, mysterious due to her closed mouth, alluring because of the way her eyes squinted, the sort of thing you want more of like an extra five minutes in the morning.
She lit an apple scented candle beside her bed and Sharp Objects lay next to it. He kept his distance from the candle and orated his idea as best he could, his nasal passages cuing up to dispose of the scent they detested so much. And she laughed at the cute factor behind his idea, its attempt at charm, and the possible emasculating aftermath of his idea — following each of his words like they were tiny and expensive chocolates she had to try.
“You really want to go pick apples and be one of those couples?”
He did. Her or him could try to deny it, try to define her and him in a way that created superiority and differentiation, but that would have taken time. And why spend time on that when you could spend time making up again?
Round two was better than round one. It bridged something like a hiker leaping over a gorge. Attentive, raw, exploratory, hands on, aggressive, sensual, fierce, tingling, tense — some of the words to describe what went down on her bed. During pillow talk, her hand on his abdomen and his hand on her waist, him and her tried sorting through their word exchange to figure out what the something was that her and him were involved in. He laughed, she nestled her nose into his forehead, his fingertips pranced along her skin, she alluded to round three and pulled away, he shook his head with a smile, and she lay on his chest.
“Whatever this is, I’m sticking around.”
And he tilted her head so they could kiss. Round three.
“So, you still want to take me?”
He shook his head and reached for his boxers with one hand, his other hand on the towel covering his lower body. She put on her sweater. Grey, warm, the sweater was too big for her yet understood her curves. And with black leggings that were already on he watched the greyness cover her black bra and skin that lacked a freckle. She knew he loved her outfit. So, she posed and asked for his approval. He gave it and tossed aside his towel, boxers on. She walked over and kissed him. His palms slid onto her hip bones. Then he pulled away.
“You’re not the one who gets to tease.”
He finished getting dressed and went to the kitchen to check on the pot of coffee he turned on before showering. She followed, leaned against the counter, and watched him: thermos from the cupboard, open thermos, smile at her, pour coffee into thermos, check time, look at her, make sure thermos was tight, open fridge, take out sandwiches and fruit, go to other cupboard, take out cooler, put sandwiches and fruit into cooler, zip cooler closed, smile at her, look at her, and wink. He was planned, calculated, and wanted her to come along for the ride. She agreed to.
An Indian Summer had come and gone. Autumn held onto things as her and him held hands and walked into the apple orchard. He let go of her and told her she was responsible for the cooler. He picked up a basket. She walked down a row of apples and he walked down another.
“Afraid to be seen with me?”
He came to her and his rebuttal was quick and simplistic. Her punch to his shoulder was hard and direct. He offered her coffee. She took it and he started picking apples. She criticized his selections and he reminded her she could not bake anyway.
After an hour, he found a spot to sit and asked her to join him. She did. He opened the cooler and told her to choose. She chose a sandwiche. He did the same.
“Not the worst day I’ve ever had.”
And he was happy to hear it. Told her so. Told her more. And she did the same. Told him things he had been hoping to hear for awhile. Then she looked at him. He looked at her. And it was the beginning of them.
