Apple of My Eye

Is that apple cider you’re sampling?

And…is that a scarf you’re wearing? (It’s Portlandia. You’d be wondering too.)


And that leaf you just stepped on — was that a CRUNCHY leaf?

Also: those boots you’re wearing — would those be Frye boots? (If yes: I like your boots! A++.)


Maybe you’d like to be friends? Maybe you’d like to grab coffee sometime?


Maybe you could teach me about pumpkin spice lattes. Or just introduce me. I’ve never had one, and I hear they’re all the rage. Even in August.

August. It’s still August. Why am I looking at baskets of apples? So many apples!


I love apples. (Apple charts!) But what happened to those turquoise boxes I like so much?


I am easy to please. Present me with something, anything, in a turquoise box, and I will transform into a living, breathing, hearts-for-eyes emoji.


Even if all you have for me is a plum. A French Petite plum. Honestly, though…I don’t know about plums. Aren’t plums an awful lot like prunes?

I don’t know how you feel about summer. About it slipping away. Did you have a good one, this year? Are you sad to see it come to an end?

You know all about my summer. You know that it was really, really hard. You know that all the caprese salads in the world couldn’t make it better.

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Here is a hard truth. (In addition to the fact that tomatoes do not always taste like tomatoes.) You can’t collect all of the things you don’t want to deal with and put them away in a box. A: they don’t make boxes that big. B: they don’t make labels that long.

At some point, someone (on a perfectly innocent search for clean linens? HALL CLOSET) will open the door to the storage space you thought you’d use instead. This someone is going to take one look inside before inhaling sharply. Before pivoting to see you, standing there. Before expelling a barely breathed, almost audible, oh, honey.

Eventually, someone is going to look at you. They are going to have twin tide pools for eyes, when they do. And then you are going to have to deal with whatever is in that box. In that closet, in that crawl space — whatever you want to call it. Like it or not. You’re going to have to deal with it because you love this person, because this person loves you.


Someone does. Someone loves you in August, someone loves you in October, someone loves you in the dead of winter. Someone loves you every spring.

Someone loves you when you’re wonderful; when you’re terrible, too. Someone loves you when you’re shining, when you’re sulking, too.

Someone loves you when you underdress for dinner; when you overdress the salad. Someone loves you when you can’t sit still; when you can’t keep up.

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Someone loves you when you’ve got it covered. (You think.) And someone loves you when okay, actually, you might need a little help. (A little more help.)

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