CJ Peradilla


telephone request

what kind of an apple did eve eat, she reads from the card, yellowed and awash with the smell of dust. the words depart her lips as if a serious inquiry, to which she stymies a chuckle. alone surrounded with a fortress of books she cocks her head to the side, takes a short breath, buries her lips onto a cupped hand.

who knows, she shrugs. It might have been the kind she once spit out because the peel felt so wax-like she thought it was a coffee table ornament. it might've been the kind some japanese growers cross-bred from two american varieties back in the 1930s. that would've been a nice meal, she thinks to herself, in fact i could use a fuji apple right about now. still thinking, she pinches the card with two fingers each hand, inhales sharply, slides it back into its drawer slot.

how inadequate, such discovery. unsatisfied, she takes three steps back before turning on her heel to walk away. who's to say it was an apple at all, she wonders. it could have been a pear, only lost in translation.

CJ Peradilla writes for a living. Her prose and poetry have appeared in DANAS, Sunday Times Magazine, and The Cabinet.
 
 
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