number.one
The old lady was studiously chewing an apple and spitting out the peals into her wrinkled, pale, palm. Her figure was that of a perished leaf: brisk and timid.
Her yellow stained eyes gave away nothing. Not wisdom, nor remorse. [What a beauty she must have been, I thought.]
She traveled alone everyday, and inhabiting a small corner on that steel-bench, she would patiently and religiously bite off small pieces of a rosy apple.
And today she wasn’t there.
[Was she dead? Or was she out of apples?]
Her sacred affair with the apples of this town remains a mystery.
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