She'd been a pre-school teacher once and learned the secrets of apples. Picking up a knife and reaching for the fruit bowl in her kitchen, she offered me an exhibition: there is a star if you slice it sideways.
The number of seeds isn't random: there are always five, radiating from the apple's heart, a little star, an asterisk to mark what's been missing all the other times
my lips have been drawn to the glistening red, how many I've held without knowing what really lies at the core. It was the hour of whispers. Would she show me more, something else I've never known before?