Every bite was an interruption. An unwelcome one at that—at least—to everyone but me.
The apple was the size of her head. And it was louder than the thoughts bouncing around in it. Thoughts that, when shared with the class, sliced her apple, pulverized it, smoldered it, sugar coated it and served a god-damn wholesome pie to the entire class. I ate it up.
“In act II, Scene III, I noticed Bosola really—“
“Crrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuck Pffffft Criiissssk,” said the Apple. Rude, but eloquent.
“Fuck,” I thought to myself, chuckling. That was the best thing I’ve heard in class today.
She was smiling. She wasn’t smiling, though. She was in convulsions of happiness. She smiled with her entire body. Her eyes widened, her shoulders popped, and her teeth burst. Her head didn’t even work hard, but it made yours hurt to just laugh along.
But you couldn’t NOT laugh along. The apple was hilarious.
“Crrrrrrck, Fffffffft, Slurrrrrrrrrrrrp” the Apple added.
“God damnit,” I said. This time, aloud.
I immediately reverted back to 7th grade. That time my friend put a “kick me” post it on the girl he liked. We couldn’t stop laughing. The funniest part was that it wasn’t funny, but our efforts to hold in the laughter were so intense, I began tearing up while letting out incremental suffocated cries of “tee hee” “eeek” and “aaaah!”
“Fffffffft, Slurrrp, Gulllllp,” she said, to nobody in particular, but I felt like it was at least meant for me.
Meant for me, but received by the man sitting next to me. He was falling asleep. The apple on his Mac even dimmed. She took a bite straight out of it, and he felt it like a knuckle to the temple.
ESPN.com darkened into a black screen, and the skin between his nose and his cheek was in a state of perpetual twitch.
That is, until he intercepted my message. It was mine.
The stars of his dreams: rainbows, puppies, touchdowns and turnovers, the gorgeous girl five seats from him, chomping at the apple with reserved relentlessness that would make you blush. It was a pistol with a silencer in a dark alley. I’d had a rough day, and this Shakespeare shit was boring. The man next to me had a great dream, and probably wanted to keep it.
“Crack slurrrp craccck sluurrp gulpppp” The Apple shouted.
His neck jolted. He was ashamed. The apple paid more attention than he did. He woke to a stumbling stupor of himself, nearly losing his balance in his own seat.
“Eh, uh, uh, uhhh,” he stammered.
He raised his hand a few seconds later. A community service act that was done to fill out his time sheet.
“Yes?” The professor said.
“Eh, uh, um, mum, eh, aah,” he started.
“Uegh, ah, eh, the thing I thought was interesting—,” he continued.
“Creeeeeeick Fttttfttt slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp, caaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,” The Apple said, in the most deliberate boast of its career. The bite was calculated. Orchestrated, even. She maintained eye contact with him for the duration of the bite, and nothing in life had ever been so demanding of laughter.
It was the lonely elevated red platform—a lifeguard tower on a crisp, sweet white-sand beach. It was the last patch of red-hot skin of a residing blush on an alabaster face. A face that, for now, had reason to blush—but only in the mind of her own.
It was the tip of the matchstick, and she bit it with such force—such friction that her teeth skated upwards, igniting the flame. She just burned the whole fucking classroom down.
Her eyes reflected the shocked faces of those observing the classroom, engulfed in fruitful flames. I’d imagine, at least, but I don’t need to. I saw it. They were glazed. Thoughtful, aware, all the while not giving a shit. She had an apple to eat, and this class just took another 90 minutes.
I took off my shoes. The apple made itself at home. She resigned herself to another circular class discussion, I figured I’d be in for the long haul.
I cited the season. It’s autumn. The leaves on the balcony are the color that the apple once was. The apple that now rests idly at the far corner of her desk, pale and exiled from the drips of condensed moisture it left, like footprints in a foggy field.
I cited the time. I did my body well today. It was time for some nourishment. And not those obnoxious Halloween ads.
“There’s no wrong way to eat a Reeses.”
“There’s no right way to consume a protein shake in an Early Modern Drama class. Or maybe anywhere besides a tanning salon.”
If her apple said “hearing my own skin tear itself is better than hearing you assholes make another idiotic point,” mine said “Biceps, biceps biceps, iron, steel, my pecs are stronger than your brain.”
“Clank clank clank clank swish. . “ The metallic shaker knocked obnoxiously at the walls.
“Gulp gulp gulp gulp . . .” my typically loud throat groaned.
“ Growl growwwwwwwwwl euuugh” my stomach grumbled, angry that the apple belonged to the digestive tract three seats down. I heard her tummy feel sorry for itself, too. Our stomachs groaned in unison. One pitch a tad higher than the other. We were synchronized, both in boredom, pain and digestion.
Meanwhile, people were audacious enough to interrupt us, raising hands, citing quotes, and saying ‘um’.
I cracked a smile from the side of my mouth. There was no use hiding. I exhaled a perfectly silent outburst of laughter. My inhale was a kid choking on an apple core. Half the room turned around, the other half were used to it by now.
Her mouth opened, and her lips peeled back, exposing a hue of white that shamed the meat of her apple. The part you don’t understand, the part nobody understands is that it did. The apple just sat there, idle. It said no words; it didn’t dress itself up in a pie, or a container with high fructose corn-syrup. It admitted defeat.
It rotted in the crackling autumn cross-wind.
The breeze tickled my left ear. I turned from The Apple’s peripherals, and her gaze that enticed me to laugh again. I smiled as quietly as I could.
I put my shoes back on. He fell back asleep. Nobody knew.
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