There were seven apples on the table.
Seven.
The perfect number.

The apples aren’t perfect.
They look perfect.
Red and shining with polished wax.
But they're bruised.
Drying.

I ate one tonight and the pulp
disintegrated in my mouth
like tasteless powder.

It’s what I get for forgetting to eat dinner.
A bad apple.

Now there are six unholy apples on the table.