apple

 

 

Pie reminds me. Way back when. The first famous person who paid me (who’s name starts with P). His friend, also famous, was snack-hunting and found me in clean up, wiping down stainless steel. Circularly shining the twenty feet of counter. The longest counter I had wiped to date, not since…they’ve doubled and tripled and it seems gone on longer.
A counter is a measure of grandeur. My favorite, still, being a black one copied from Como.
So. Pie.
He was hankering for apple.
And sort of grunted in frustration that it would be so easy if someone, (someone?), would just pick up a pack of the ones you can pop in and toast.
And walked away.
I glanced around and — almost as if the apples and butter were laughing — it was made.
Next time he came the smell hit first. He said, ‘What? You found some? Sweet.’
I whispered, ‘No. I made one.’
‘With what? Whole apples?’
‘Yup.’
With one hand under pie and another on Brigham’s, I walked past to my client.
Where he sat, stunned and smiling.
I’ll see you tomorrow, I said.
The ice cream with two spoons stuck in.
‘Night, night.’