red

There was this

apple

it was red, and I don’t mean firetruck red, this was secretary from the forties red. Lace black garter and bustier red. Red. Red like the lips on those innocent-esque girls in the rain, pursed sweetly under their umbrellas, begging for company. That Red. Red like the knee-high cotton socks an all-girl-college-students who know you notice but act like they don’t; with the pale, long legs and that pleated skirt too short not to be there if only to tease. The red of a woman’s lush, tangled hair you wake up in, and wouldn’t mind sleeping in, save that you must run back to the ball-and-chain. That deep red, that passionate red, redder than…Red. So here I am with this red, succulent, vuluptuous, sensous apple and this appetite an anorexic would die for, and who could blame me if I took one bite?