“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me”

“I shrugged. 'Any fool can peel the Apple,' I said. 'It takes a real man to eat the core.”

“I turned my peeled-apple face to him. I'd make myself look at him. I owed him that. His touch lingered on my neck as though he'd left a handprint of melted light.”

“He’s sitting casually at my kitchen table peeling the skin off an applewith a pocket knife, a red apple that he has quite obviously appropriated from my fruit bowl, might I add.”

“My goodness, I am made from planets and wood, diamonds and orange peels, now and then, here and there; the iron in my blood was once the blade of a Roman plow; peel back my scalp and you will see my cranium covered in the scrimshaw carved by an ancient sailor who never suspected he was whittling at my skull — no, my blood is a Roman plow, my bones are being etched by men with names that mean sea wrestler and ocean rider and the pictures they are making are pictures of northern stars at different seasons, and the man keeping my blood straight as it splits the soil is named Lucian and he will plant wheat, and I cannot concentrate on this apple, this apple, and the only thing common to all of this is that I feel sorrow so deep, it must be love, and they are upset because while they are carving and plowing they are troubled by visions of trying to pick apples from barrels.”

“Keep your eyes peeled. You might just see Christmas yet”