The phone rang. The voice inside the receiver sounded thin. It wasn’t who he had hoped it would be. ‘Hello Sir? There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.‘ He looked up, out of the window, at the apple of his eye, swinging on the branch against the grey. He had watched that apple intently since it had been a pale blossom when the tree decided to break the banks of its wintry inertia. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge from the din of the branches screeching against the glass. He turned his head to the left, tilted his pupils to the right. ‘I am afraid so, Sir.’ The apple’s entire existence, from beginning to end, was a mere trajectory of decay, and still it glistened in the moisture. He was also past his best, and the weather certainly didn’t help.
