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I like apples, always have. Ever since I was a little girl, as I watched the evil Queen give Snow White the biggest, juiciest red apple, I have been obsessed with them.

My sister thought I was crazy. At Halloween I would request apples from my neighbors. I would offer the other kids large piles of candy for their apples, which they were glad to get rid of. My Mom and my sister would warn me repeatedly that they were not safe, that there could be worms, a needle, or a razorblade inside one of those tasty red treats.  There never was.

I learned how to bake just so I could make apple pie, I made an apple pie every other day for my family until my sister screamed that she was sick of eating it. Using a dried apple, I made a doll of her, which I then tortured for a while until I began to feel bad for damaging an old apple that had really not done anything wrong. She never liked apples my sister, she never liked me either, which suits me just fine.

When I got to college I met Thomas Anderson, a T.A. He had been a classmate of my sister a few years before but I didn’t hold it against him, especially since he loved apple flavored food as much as I did, even if he didn’t appreciate the spherical beauty of the apple itself. He thought it was cute that I used to stuff my bra with half an apple when other girls were using socks and tissue paper. After a few years, Tom became a teacher, I finished my English Literature studies and we were married. It took a few more years before we found this little house in the country with a large apple orchard out back. Whoever had lived here before me also loved the apples, the view of the orchard was perfect and even the wooden panels of the house were a rich cherry oak red.

After a few years Thomas began to change as men always do. The sex became boring, the conversations stunted, his enthusiasm for apples dimmed until it seemed almost as if he was annoyed by my reminders every morning to pack a red special present for himself. I realized it was time for us to create a fruit of our own loins, so we had a baby, which brought him back to me for a while. I was sort of sad that we didn’t have a boy and so was he, but for different reasons. I wanted to name him Macintosh, but instead I named her Fiona, he never really knew why either. It was my little secret.

Everything was going well until this morning. My mother and sister came to see the baby which was a nice gesture, or so I thought. My mother helped make the pie for dinner while little Fiona threw apple sauce everywhere, I thought my sister and my husband were on the porch. They never expected me to see them in the bathroom together, my sister on her knees sucking my husband like a carnival candy apple.

I returned to the kitchen and for the first time in years I remembered my childhood, Snow White and all the Halloween’s my sister and I had spent together. I never really believed her when she said people could put razor blades in an apple. I have two very special apples now for my sister and Thomas. I am going to find out if all those Halloween stories were true.

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