This morning, on the way out the door, I grabbed a freshly-purchased apple.
It was too-dark-red, almost winestasined. Shiny, but in that false, Safeway-way. As soon as I bit into it, I could see that something was dramatically wrong. The inside was yellow as an old man’s teeth, but with none of the sheen that would suggest any hint of juiciness. The center bloomed a darker brown, literally rotten to the core.
I couldn’t even close my teeth around the chunk that wavered in my mouth. I froze for a moment, the soft edges of the apple flesh beginning to crumble and melt against my lips. I noticed my fingers begin to sink ever so slightly into the body of the apple as I leaned over and spat the bite right back into the spot it had come from.
An odd metallic taste crept across my tongue, rolling between sickly sweet and overwhelmingly plastic. I hunted around the car for a piece of gum, a sip of water, a leftover goldfish cracker, anything to reset my first taste of the morning.
I have no hope for the rest of the bunch.