We split an apple once. Straight down the middle. You made a joke about what you thought the core looked like and I laughed. We didn’t really know each other but you liked that I knew the French call orgasm “le petit mort,” or “the little death,” and I liked you were the type of person willing to share their fruit. After we left the seeds in the grass and returned to the rest of our fruitless day, an overwhelming thickness settled in my throat. I had the idea that in order to keep you interested in sharing fruit with me, I had to learn French. And Latin for that matter. Or Danish.
Instead, I always kept an orange with me-just in case I caught you in the grass again.