Rage Apples

merlin:

“We’ll always have breakfast.”

Periodically, I still visit her page, even though I know she isn’t there and hasn’t been for months. And, yes, even though I know she’ll never return. She’s gone.

I think it’s what everyone needed, even if it was ultimately beyond all of our control.

But, this place? Here? This was our place. The place where we’d first reunited after those long years apart.

And, awkward as it was getting reacquainted (especially given what we’d both been through) our new life soon seemed more natural than ever.

Our favorite time together was breakfast. Of course. We didn’t talk much, but, then, that wasn’t how our relationship worked—she was the laconic type. And, me? I was just happy she was back and still incredibly hot, both inside and out.

For a while, we were both getting what we wanted. Sure: what we needed.

Then, one day, she was gone without a word. We never even got a chance to say goodbye. But, maybe that’s better.

What would I have said? Believe me, I ask myself every morning as I choke down the desiccated, un-Grape-iness of her pale “Strawberry” replacement. That’s no replacement. That’s just HFCS and a cost-effective flour substitute. But, that’s not Grapey.

I mean, what could you say to an extremely unhealthy frosted breakfast pastry as she looks in your eyes, tearing up, and not knowing whether to leave you forever?

You tell her to get on that discontinuation and never look back—that if she struggled to stay, she’d regret it forever. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and until the day she expired or, according to the little stamp on her box, should have been sold by.

Then, you walk off the foggy runway with a crooked agent of the occupying Vichy government, as played by Claude Rains.

(Or something. I dunno. Not sure. Still kinda working it all out in my head. Which is hard. Because, I’m all fucked up on strawberry Pop-Tarts. [Jesus, these are shit].)