Une pomme meurtri

 

Une pomme meurtri

Message from a stranger on Facebook. Says he had Mlle K for Beginner French. Says we should talk.

We meet at an outdoor table, coffee shop.

She mentioned you, he says first.
Okay, I say, cautious.
Look, he says. I know and you know.

How did she mention me? I ask.
Fondly, he says. That you were so quiet.
Yeah, I say.

I bet you were a shy brainy virgin, he says. And socially incompetent—like me. Right?

Yeah, I say. Still am, I say.
We chuckle.

Mlle K, he says, was never a knockout. It was really awkward but also kind of great, like a fantasy. So you know, right, the suicide?

No! I say. When? I ask.
June, he says.
You think they found out? I ask.
Maybe, he says.

You tell anybody? he asks.
No, I say. She was, like, Absolument jamais!

My wife, he says.
Not mine, I say.

I don’t feel damaged, he says, but my wife says if I don’t feel damaged how come I never told anybody? You’d think I’d brag about it.

I liked her, I say. She made me feel special but also kind of sad.

She was, um, educational, he says. But at the same time I felt sorry for her. Not that I said no to anything.

Yeah, I say.  

Like a bruised apple, he says.
Sweet, but parts you avoid.

I’ve got kids, I say.
Me too, he says.
I wouldn’t want— I say.
Yeah, he says.

We look at the other tables. Nobody listening.

I appreciate you meeting me, he says.
So? I ask.
Let’s never talk again, he says.
Yeah, I say.

…..

First published in Naugatuck River Review
Photo by eak k