FruitGuy Noir in: “Rome & The Pink Lady” October 30, 2006
She was a red but with a hint of golden-green about her. I found her hanging around with the ones they said were a bit sweet and tart. They called her Lady. She corrected them calmly: “It’s Pink Lady,” she cooed. She was the apple in of my eye from day one — ever since I saw that dimple just below her smile. A product of great breeding, Pink Lady, got her “gold” from the golden delicious clan and laid down the “Lady” like an Ace of hearts straight from the Lady William set. “FruitGuy,” she whispered as I picked her up from the Smit apple ranch in Linden, California. “I want to visit Rome.” She broke my heart that night. I guess an apple needs a guy like me like a fish needs a unicycle on a turtle carrying some freshly baked cookies to a sick auntie. It was the kind of thing that can make a less nimble literary giant mix his metaphors.
I was a sucker for Pink Lady, so I introduced her to Rome. He was from Kozlowski farms – a nice patch of country between Sebastopol and the Russian River in beautiful Sonoma County. His ancestry stretched back to the 1820s when his relatives came up on a shoot from Rome, Ohio. He was perfectly round with a bright, deep red that could make blushes jealous. He had confidence in spades. “Lady, this is Rome,” I said reluctantly. Lady smiled, and it drove me nuts. I picked up Rome and hooked a left onto his chin. He tasted great. He was juicy & firm with that hint of fall freshness that is superb. Lady screamed. That’s how I ended up here. At the end of this story. A slammer of sorts. My private jail is known as an absurdity.
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