The Taste of Freedom

First time alone and I’m scared. My smudged necklace winks in the crusty glow as I skirt these narrow alleys. Apple cores litter one doorway, green and red and mottled. Granny Smith, too bitter. Red Delicious, too soft. The third, like baby bear’s chair, is my favourite.

Outside, the approaching dawn unveils a world of hazy, muted tones.

“Ain’t I seen you someplace?” A man squats. Greasy spots swoop in like hyenas before the kill. “Hey, Larry! Ain’t this that rich lady’s cat? The one we’ve seen on the billboards?”

I know when to make my escape, but not before I grab that pomme, that elegant, sumptuous Pink Lady.


Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:

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