Such redness stings. Crates of hearts, they stop me in the market. I dumbly stare at the repeating bulbs, fields of pain. I do not eat apples but always buy them. A house without her favorite fruit is strangely empty of something essential even if it sings with laughter, laughter that she cannot hear, laughter that cannot turn the corners of her chewing mouth into a reluctant smile, not even a little. I do not buy apples.
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