"When I remind you I hate apples, you slam the door and drive away. See, the cross-section of any..."

“When I remind you I hate apples, you slam the door
and drive away. See, the cross-section of any relationship
is never as cleanly cut as apples are, as pears
and nectarines are. So when I say I hate apples, I mean
I hate the way you kissed my temple in the backseat
of the cab before you dropped a hand on my thigh
and told me I should take up
exercising. And I remember the first time I told you,
you left and came back with a carton of grapes,
carrying them up seven flights of stairs
to my door. Wrapped your arms around my
middle and told me you could hate apples too. But I shake
my head and cry because you don’t understand -
you could never hate apples the way I do. Because to you
they don’t resemble ellipses marking the end
of every relationship I have ever had. And
they don’t remind you of the time you told me
my breasts weren’t round enough. So now, as you drive away -
angry because you think I’m neurotic and angry because
you have always loved apples -
I go downstairs to the supermarket and buy the
four kilos of Granny Smiths you will receive rotting
on your doorstep, smelling like the aftermath
of this thing that has destroyed
the both of us.”

-

— An Apple-Shaped Ellipse (via letters-to-nobody)

By letters-to-nobody