Highway with Green Apples

by Bae Suah

“Do you remember those green apples, from the last time we took a trip?” Why am I suddenly thinking about those green apples? “Green apples? Oh, those horrible sour apples. They made my mouth pucker.”

“You know what I thought about back then? I thought about going back to that street someday and becoming one of those women who sell green apples.” “Instead of selling shirts in a department store?” He sounds a little hurt.

Because life has not turned out the way I wanted it to. Because that’s how it always is—as a child, you get no love from your parents, and at school, you get bad grades and never catch anyone’s eye. And after you’re all grown up, you keep peeking in the door of the gynecology clinic, and then wait for an hour, and another hour, at the café where a man has promised to meet you, gulping down several cups of weak coffee before leaving alone in the dark. Then, to top it off, the cat that crosses your path one day on a highway with green apples turns out to be a black cat.

I was the kind of girl who felt defeated at the sight of pretty girls walking around confidently. I never trust anyone who tells me I’m pretty or says they like me. It’s the same insecurity I feel as when a teacher calls me by the wrong name on the first day of school.

It seemed I would never meet a man who would be sweet to me, a man who would hold my hand as we crossed a raging river, a man who would come to mind whenever I got sick. That’s what I thought about as I tipped the hot kettle over the coffee cup.

My cousin was very pretty with bright red cheeks and dewy lips.

“It doesn’t make you carsick?” he asked. “It’s just a sketch,” I said. “And anyway, it’s not me drawing but a stranger inside of me who compels me to draw. When that happens, I have no choice but to draw, even while driving.”

I closed the sketchbook with a snap. He hated it when I did that. I did it on purpose. What happened to the docile, slightly sexy, five-foot-four shopgirl he thought he’d met?

He takes me with him to get coffee. The wind is quiet, and I can hear water trickling somewhere. It’s too dark to see anything. “The machine is down there, at the end,” he says. He points to the other side of the road, which is lined with darkened shops.

It feels good to stand on a wet street late at night in a white cotton coat and smoke a cigarette while looking at the lights of a convenience store across the street.