“The Apple”
She yearned to close his ribcage around her and wear his skin.
This man had overtaken her mind, body, and soul and she had surrendered to it. Every facet of his being was something to be treasured. Every burp, he barped. Every fart, he furt. A gift. And her appetite could never be satiated. As she gazed upon him, bathed in the sun’s celestial glow, like he was in heaven’s spotlight, she wondered how she was so lucky. Granny Smith was a good choice. Tart and bitter and the green brought out his deep brown eyes. He knew what he was doing. As he indulged in each mouthful, he would savor the juice. Sucking on it loudly with a sweet tears streaming down his chin. The longing to be that fucking apple intensifying with every bite. His lips were glistening, his chin was wet, and she was almost relieved when he took his last bite.
She couldn’t take much more of it. But he didn’t stop. He crunched once more. Right into the core. Unusual. Their eyes locked as he sucked each seed. She felt her cheeks flushing. Then the stick. He never took his eyes off her and he chewed and battled to get that stick down his gullet. She loved his quirks. And then he kept going….he ate it.The black spiked underbelly. The arse of the apple. And in one foul chomp into that black hairy abyss, she was awakened. This was a man she met online two weeks ago. This man was a stranger.
What kind of psychotic animal eats the arse of an apple? Maybe one that’s never eaten an apple? Maybe one that’s not even human. She suddenly noticed his chapped hands and how far apart his eyes were. He looked at her concerned and smiled. Bits of black apple arse stuck in his front teeth. She was fighting for her life not to puke right there. What was his last name? Maybe he was one of those lizard people? That would be a logical, perhaps even preferable explanation. She’d had sex with him. What’s growing in her stomach? They no longer felt like butterflies but claws scratching her from the inside. And growls that weren’t from hunger. He looked at her with even more concern now. Her eyes widened; she couldn’t let him know that she knew if she wanted to survive. She knows what he is. With all the composure she could muster, she smiled and asked him the only thing that came to her mind: Who’s your favorite musician? He thought for a moment before answering:
“Uhmm. Mick Jagger?”
‘The Apple’ by Alannah Stritch. Writer. Irish. Anxious. 
Follow Ms Stritch on Instagram.
Main image by Neil Hoare @hoaremonal
