When I was in third grade, there was
this girl I liked named Emily --
we were friends for something like
eight years, off and on. I'd always
thought we'd end up together
because when I'd count the number
of twists it took to snap the stem
from an apple I was about to eat -- which,
for the uninitiated, seldom fails to reveal
the first letter of your true love's name
-- it took five twists, leaving me with
my finest wish, the silent promise of an "E".

Sometimes I had to pull harder, and
other times the right answer demanded patience.
Sometimes, I was sure I'd gotten a response
meant for another of the apple's handlers;
perhaps it was really an anonymous produce
clerk who should be looking for a girl named
Francine, or Karla, or (on those difficult
days) Tina.

But we grew up, our families moved away
and I don't know what's become of Emily.
Still, when I eat an apple, I count the
number of twists its stem can withstand
before snapping. And when I go out,
I don't think about my date's conversation
or her appearance, but the deeper, the elusive,
"Can I make it to her name before the stem breaks off?"

December 27, 1995
Waiting for a plane in Chicago's O'Hare Airport