Skin

I’ve known many apples in my lifetime. Honeycrisp, Red Delicious, Granny Smith. Red apples, green apples, ripe apples, browning apples. Apples crunchy, apples soft. Apples store bought, apples handpicked. Apples unblemished, apples bruised.

The skin of the apple is cool against mine as I roll it between my palms. I’m a pitcher before the pitch, feeling the seams of the baseball dig into my hands. My sweaty hair clings to my brow, and I swipe it away with my wrist. All I can think about is how sweet, how cold the apple slices in the Ziploc bag in the Igloo cooler will taste after this is all over.

I rub a paper towel over the skin of the apple as it warms in my hands. I’m a teacher sitting at my desk, using the hem of my sweater to bring the skin to a glossy sheen. I’m late for class. This is my breakfast and my lunch. I hold the apple to my cheek, and then my throat, and then my forehead. The apple feels like a cold hug. I am ashamed to even think of eating it.

I split the skin of the apple with my teeth, hearing the crunch of flesh splitting and tearing, spraying the apple’s lifeblood onto my keyboard. I’m a baker in the kitchen, and I can’t help myself. I pick up a half-naked apple, curls of its skin still stuck in my peeler, and close my eyes before taking a great big bite. I will cut up what is left into cubes shaped like dice and fold it with brown sugar, oats, and butter. I will put it in the oven, where it will grow hot and tender. No crisp, no crunch. No skin, just flesh.

In college my biology professor told me the apple originated in Asia, and that it tasted and looked nowhere near the apple we have today. Except for the seeds. She said if you cut the apple this way, as her knife guillotined the apple in half through the core, the seeds form a star. She said the apple has traveled through thousands of years, thousands of miles, and thousands of hands just to be in yours.

I bring the apple to my mouth, kiss it, and take another bite.