It was almost too decadent to think of. Large, round, a blushing red fading to a golden yellow at the top. It smelled like fall and fresh air and sunshine. The sound when my knife cut into it - all crunch and sharp like the crack of a whip in the wind. And the taste as I raised that first succulent bite to my lips. Heavenly.

I understand why the apple was the Bible’s choice for Eve to allegedly woo Adam into eating from the Tree of Knowledge. For this apple, appropriately named “Envy” lived up to it’s name as I savored it’s juicy flesh.

That, however, was a memory - brilliantly vivid but of a time not in the present moment. No assuredly not, as the fruit in front of me would have hardly tempted anyone to take a bite. 

​I’m sitting on the floor of my nearly empty flat, looking around at the controlled chaos. Generally neat, my place now feels like an explosion of bags and miscellaneous necessities. Drawers half open because I keep checking and re-checking to make sure that they are empty. The last suitcase of “trip wear” - i.e. the clothes I will use as I drive across country - awaiting the bathroom items after I shower and dress tomorrow.

Actually, it’s not that bad of a mess. By society’s standards, I don’t even own much. But to me, multiple suitcases of clothes, two backpacks of books, my Vitamix, pillows, hangars - these seem excessive compared to the lifestyle I had previously while on the road full time. Add to it the fact I own a car again, and that my X-pole with it’s 200lb stage is already loaded into it, and I feel as wealthy as a Kardashian with the royalties from a reality TV show in re-runs.

​“It will cost how much??” 

I was on the phone with a removal service scheduling a pickup for my couch. I planned to donate it to a charity, but sans truck, I was having to pay someone to take it away. I had already tried to arrange pickups with EIGHT local charities, all of which informed me they stopped that service during the pandemic of 2020.

The man hemmed and hawed. “It depends on where you are. It might cost $149, maybe $199, but if we have to help you lift it out the door the price goes up considerably…” 

The sound of an old fashioned cash register ca-chinged in my head. Suddenly I realized he was asking me the location of my flat. When I gave him the address, he guffawed some more. “That will add about another $50 or so to the price. It’s a difficult location.”

“I’m five minutes from your main office where the truck is housed,” I interjected. But as the man began a long winded, utterly nonsensical saga about the logistics of getting to me (read: you’re a woman and can’t possibly understand directions to go three streets over and make a right hand turn into the garage) - I realized getting rid of this couch was a pain in the ass - one I didn’t intend to repeat in my next location.