Green Apple with Cheese

She rubbed the towel against her hair which was damp where the shower spray had caught it. When she entered the room, she saw at once that he was asleep on the sofa, his long legs squashed to fit the cramped space.

She felt her eyebrow quirk upwards, a movement out of her control. Not much was, these days. She hung the towel on a chair and walked into the kitchen. Domesticity amused her sometimes. She clicked the kettle on that she had already filled for the two of them.

Soon, she carried an aqua tray with two full mugs, two plates, a pair of green apples, freshly washed, some cheese and a blunt cheese knife. When she lowered it to the square table, she said, “Wakey wakey.”

No movement from the sofa. She watched his eyelids flicker. What he was dreaming?

“Time for a cuppa,” she said, slightly louder. She watched his chest rise and fall in a relaxed rhythm.

Putting her will behind the word, she spoke his name. Her eyes narrowed at the lack of response. Was he that tired from climbing today? The shower had completely refreshed her. Maybe she should have invited him to join her, but that didn’t fit her plan. 

She looked down at him, assessing. A fit male specimen: a runner with a gym membership, all the gear for hill climbing, even the odd marathon medal hanging around his flat. He certainly had seemed to have muscles in all the right places when she seduced him. 

She sipped her tea and considered her intentions for the rest of their long weekend which she hadn’t consulted him about as she liked to surprise people. 

How dare he sleep after the time and effort she expended? She frowned but quelled the angry impulse to shout him awake. 

No. She didn’t shout. Not at this stage in the game.

She crossed the room to take her pocket knife out of her leather jacket and sat down to slice, very thinly, one of the green apples. She placed the slices to make an artistic fan and admired her handiwork. She always had been good with her hands. 

Maybe she should have pursued some sort of craft, pottery maybe. She let herself laugh out loud at the image of herself at a potter’s wheel with wet clay all over her hands, messy but sexy.

She looked over at him. Still oblivious.

She gazed at the gleam of the pocket knife then back at him. So frustrating, but she resisted the idea of shaking him awake. And being seductive bored her now. She wasn’t in the mood to satisfy his banal expectations.

She brought the tip of the knife against her thumb, drawing a crimson drop of blood. She smiled and licked it away, then dipped the knife in her tea and wiped the blade clean on her jeans.

She hesitated, a shame to spoil the artistic fan, then ate an apple slice. What had he said? That she was a delicate eater. He’d never seen her devour a pizza delivered to her flat. 

And that delivery lad. She smiled. He had been well worth the effort. Not like Sleeping Beauty here. She fingered the silver bird on her necklace which always brought her luck.

She used the blunt knife to cut cheese to add to another slice of apple. The texture and taste of green apple with cheese could be relied upon, always precisely anticipated, never disappointing. Other hungers weren’t so easily satisfied.

***

A rooster crowing woke him. The windows revealed a grey dawn. His brain, fogged with sleep, couldn’t place where he was. Someone’s sofa? He pressed his fingers to his closed eyes, took a breath, then looked again.

In the shadows, he found a standing lamp next to the sofa, got up to locate the switch to turn it on. Absently, he folded the green and black chequered blanket that had covered him. 

Silver dog hairs gleamed in the light as he put the folded blanket on the sofa. He didn’t remember a dog. His brain hadn’t oriented yet.

He walked over to the square table. Two mugs, one full with a chip on the edge, the other empty. Slices of green apple arranged like a fan with pieces of cheese in the middle.

He touched the full mug which was near the plate of apple slices – stone cold.

Some impulse drew him to touch the other mug which was warm, as if only enjoyed recently. He saw the imprint of scarlet lipstick and remembered her then. The fog cleared.

He looked around the room and located his backpack, but didn’t see hers beside it. He called out her name, but only silence answered.

Walking into the dark kitchen, he found the light switch and flicked it on.

He filled a glass with tap water and drank it down. He refilled the glass and brought it back to sit down and eat the apple slices and cheese. The white flesh of the apple showed no trace of brown, not yet beginning to decay. He remembered her slicing a green apple on her first visit to his flat, how she focused so completely on the movements of the knife that he felt forgotten. 

After he finished the meagre breakfast, he carefully took the cold mug of tea into the kitchen and emptied it into the sink. Then he returned to gather up the other items.

As he lifted his plate, something drifted to the floor. He put mug and plate down to capture the small piece of paper.

In elegant, swirling handwriting were the words, “You are the one who got away.”

It was signed with a real kiss: the lipstick imprint made him want her under him again – or on top. Never met anyone like her. Addicted from that first inviting smile when he looked up from the rowing machine at the gym. 

He put the note back down on the table. Taking the mug and plate into the kitchen, he wondered if she’d gone for a walk. But not this early? She wasn’t a morning person. 

He added everything to the sink which already had two dirty teaspoons and the cheese knife. He washed up as he knew she liked things to be tidy.

Then he made his way quietly to the bedroom at the back of the house, hoping he could wake her with a kiss, but she wasn’t there. Enough light coming in now that he could make the bed, though he hoped they would be using it again soon.

He went back to the living room and read the note again, then folded the paper in half and again in half. He tucked it into one of the outer pockets of his backpack, where he kept the compass that his father had given him.

He remembered this place in the middle of nowhere was only theirs while her friends were away. They’d taken their dog with them, though he wouldn’t have minded looking after it. She didn’t like dogs, though, so probably just as well. 

When he opened the front door to have a look outside, he found a key in the lock. As he dreaded despite a thread of hope, only his car was parked outside. That, added to the note, made him realise their weekend together had ended sooner than planned. What had he done wrong?

He went inside to turn off the standing lamp, then hefted his backpack, went out, locked up, and posted the key back through the letter box. Getting settled in the driving seat, he sat for a while before starting the engine to drive back toward civilisation. 

He missed her already, but doubted he could ever figure out why she wrote that elegant note or exactly what she meant by it. 

He got the feeling that she wasn’t going to be available for him to ask. She never had gotten round to giving him her phone number or details of where she lived. He bet she’d not be turning up at the gym any more or arriving at his flat unexpectedly.